


if all the world and love were young

by aw marvel no (getoffmysheets)



Series: all the pleasures prove [7]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Boys In Love, Carol is a Boss, Dad!Steve, F/M, Gen, Growing Up, Love at First Sight, M/M, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Young Love, adult problems, dad!bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2019-10-14 14:44:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 38,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17510573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getoffmysheets/pseuds/aw%20marvel%20no
Summary: A love story told three ways:Thomas accidentally sets up his niece with a Scourge of the Underworld.Istvan realizes there is a point where independence becomes isolation.Yelena's chaotic and messy marriage to a rich boy and his scary family.





	1. Nellie, Nellie, Where'd You Go?

Part One – Nellie, Nellie, Where’d You Go?

May 2028

Ionela did not believe in love at first sight.

 

This was a bit puzzling because as her fathers told it, they had been in love almost since the very moment they set eyes on each other.

 

As an adult, she thought that wasn’t quite true and so, she didn’t believe in love at first sight the way it was described: she did not believe that you could see someone and know instantly that you loved them and were meant to be with them.

 

She did believe that in an instant, you could be so attracted to someone that everything else in your mind fell away. That that attraction could resolve you to put an effort into the relationship that maybe wouldn’t’ve existed otherwise. If you were lucky, it didn’t happen to you. If you were very lucky, the other person was experiencing the same thing at the same time.

 

Ionela believed that, but she never expected it to happen _to her_.

 

And yet, here she was.

 

Tall, slender, and wearing a dress, she does not even know if the object of her sudden and painful attraction is a man or a woman. They are without a doubt the most beautiful person Ionela has ever seen. A long swath of dark silky hair, eyes so dark they are nearly black, and a red smirking mouth.

 

“I’m-I’m sorry,” she stammers, quickly retrieving her purse from the ground, face flushing as the most stunning person on the planet locks their eyes on her.

 

“Steady on, love,” they say in a Londoners accents, and her stomach flips.

 

A man. He’s a man. (She wouldn’t’ve have cared if he was a woman, a life model decoy, or an alien from outer space.) His voice is even more beautiful than his face, a deep silky tone that makes Ionela think of a slow quiet river running over stones.

 

Ionela, not one of the most outgoing people, wants to hide. “S-sorry,” she repeats, backing away as she feels his gaze taking her in. “I’ll jus-”

 

Eyes softening, he seems about to say something when a voice drawls over the bar’s music. “Is my friend bothering you, sweet thing?”

 

Pulling her eyes from his face so that she will not be tempted to stare at him like a lovestruck loser, Ionela turns to greet the owner of the voice. A blonde woman with an East End drawl, full sleeve tattoos up both arms, and a ring through her nose waves at her a little and gives her a cocky smile. “Aren’t you a treat!” The woman gives Ionela a wink and adds “What’re you doing in here?”

 

Face reddened, Ionela gapes open-mouthed at the woman for a moment before stuttering “I-I’m just here with-with my friend…”

 

Loud Blonde slings an arm over her shoulder. “Great! Let’s find them. Her?” At Ionela’s nod, she continues confidently, “Let’s find her. I’m Jack – the arsehole is Dana. Ya know you gotta be careful in places like this, right? There are some weird people around. What’s your name, love?”

 

Ionela tactfully does not point out that Jack (and Dana) could probably be counted among them. “Nellie,” she mumbles, giving the name she uses at school or when working in the restaurant. English speakers tend to have a hard time with ‘Ionela’. “Are you-are you here from London?”

 

“Great catch,” she says, with a wide pleased smile. “Yeah, we’re here on an international internship program, to do some work with Stark Industries.”

 

She blinks. “Stark? Oh, what department? My aunt is in Bio-Engineering, and my uncle is in Cybersecurity.”

 

She does not say that Tony Stark is practically her godfather, or her aunt and uncle are actually the _Directors_ of those departments. Tătic and Aunt Tasha have always had very clear guidelines about the things they can say to strangers, and the older Ionela has gotten, the more she respects them.

 

Dana chuckles quietly, a sound that pours ice through her stomach. “We aren’t in the Tech departments.”

 

“What he means is,” Jack whispers conspiratorially, “We’re actually artists and can’t do math, so we work for Marketing and the Public Affairs office. I’m good at making people buy shit and Dana can hypnotize people with his strange powers.”

 

Ionela can readily believe that. He’s hypnotized _her_ , for certain.

 

Dana sighs. “Just come out and say it’s because they don’t understand how a Pakistani got this accent, Jacqueline.”

 

Jack clicks her tongue. “Personally, I would question why your parents felt ‘Dana’ was a good name, first.”

 

Ionela suppress a laugh, which makes Jack crow in triumph. “Cor, that was a smile! Look, I almost got a real smile out of her!” Almost instantly, that makes Ionela stop smiling, a stricken, confused look on her face. “Oh, Nellie, I didn’t mean it like that. I was just trying to get that deer-in-torchlight look off you.”

 

“Sorry,” she mutters, trying not to look as miserable as she feels.

 

She doesn’t like crowds, loud music, or bright lights. Basically everything that’s supposed to come with being young and going to the club. Yelena would love something like this, but even the underage section of the bar is over-eighteen only, so she couldn’t bring her along.

 

She wishes she hadn’t agreed to go, but her college roommate complains so often about what a boring drag she is that Ionela finally agreed to go along. She wishes she’d just taken Dad’s offer and stayed at home her first year. She wishes Istvan were still here, rather than in Louisiana. He wasn’t any good at this sort of thing either, but when you had a twin, there was always someone to talk to.

 

“Oh, there you are!” Julie cries. “Did you get lost? Who are these guys?”

 

“Um…” She has no idea why they want to hang out with her. Ionela is a boring History major who spends most of her time indoors reading books with a latte in her hand – iced or hot, depending on the season. As Julie has told her numerous times, no one has a duller life than Nellie Barnes.

 

A voice in her head that sounds like Daddy says ‘ _What about Ionela? What is_ her _life like_?’

 

That part of her doesn’t exist here. This is Ionela, leave a message at the beep.

 

Being near Dana is a little like wearing a woolen sweater on bare skin – a constant, painful awareness she can’t seem to ignore or become immune to. At least her shoulders have lowered from around her ears. Two men have tried to sit next to her on her other side at the bar and he quickly dissuades both of them.

 

“Where do you go to school?” Dana asks, gesturing at the man manning the bar. Since he and Jack don’t have their hands stamped, they are probably over twenty-one. “Finishing up this semester and going home for the summer?”

 

“Columbia,” she mumbles, staring at the sleek wood of the bar top, her legs dangling off her perch on the stool. “Uh, no.”

 

She isn’t taking the summer off, there isn’t any point. Istvan is working through the summer, so he’s staying in New Orleans, and she sees Dad and Tătic every Sunday anyway. She doesn’t understand why he won’t just let Dad pay for his tuition. Uncle Sam and Dad have become literal millionaires. Other than installing the pool in the ground-floor level of the building for their 16th birthday and Ionela’s schooling, Dad has donated basically everything else he makes from the comics – he owns the building she and Istvan grew up in, so they pay property taxes but no mortgage. They grew up living off Tătic’s wages from the restaurant, so Ionela and Istvan don’t expect a lavish lifestyle, but he is well aware Dad can afford 4 years of Tulane. Her brother is just very stubborn.

 

Aware of a deafening silence next to her, she looks up to see him staring at her. “Did you just say _Columbia_?”

 

“Um…yes?” Ionela says, uncomfortable with how the intensity of that stare is making her feel. Honestly, everything about him makes her feel uncomfortable – foolish and young. The current atmosphere doesn’t help.

 

“You’re just jealous that you couldn’t get in,” Jack scoffs. “Leave the poor madam alone, you bastard. What’re you studying, Nellie?”

 

“H-history,” she says, gaining enough courage to look into Jack’s murky hazel eyes, warm and encouraging. “International history. Minoring in art.” Warming to the topic, she continues “I like to focus on the architecture, and a lot of the meaningful structures in early history were religious or related to burials. So many people get hung up on Egypt but in Mesoamerica, they had some of the most technologically advanced architecture of their time period! I’d like to do my thesis comparing burial structures in non...non-Christian…regions…”

 

Ionela, realizing that she has been rambling, chokes up and trails off, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

 

Dana quietly says, “That sounds very interesting.”

 

He doesn’t sound like he’s lying, but Ionela knows that is the kind of thing you say when you’re trying to be polite. Her face feels hot. How is she managing to screw this up so spectacularly, even when she’s actively trying not to be weird?

 

Julie snorts. “I don’t think I’ve heard you say more than a dozen words at once until just now.”

 

She orders a drink and tries to flirt with Dana rather aggressively for an hour, before Ionela decides she can’t take anymore and flees.

 

In the tiny student dorm she shares with Julie, a big old-fashioned trunk Tătic bought her sits at the end of the bed. The same one is in New Orleans, somewhere, with Istvan. Nana May pulled out the locks and installed more complicated ones that require two keys.

 

Hidden away at the bottom of this trunk is a small boutiques worth of beautiful, frilly undergarments, purchased over the years on her allowance. She’s never worn even one of them – she didn’t buy them intending to wear them for someone, she just thought they were pretty, a thought which today feels childish.

 

Now, she imagines wearing one of the pieces sitting in her collection for Dana and that feels even more childish. She knows she wouldn’t have the courage to ask him out, never mind taking her clothes off for him.

 

Yanking off her casual clothes, she falls into her bed and pulls the covers over herself, resolving to put this whole disaster behind her.

 

The sooner she can wean her nervous system off the Dana Experience, the better.

\---

Julie is out the next day, so she takes the time to video call Istvan – she likes her roommate, she really does, but she’s nosy in a way that makes Ionela feel like Julie wants her to explain her entire life to her.

 

It’s not even ten in morning, and there’s a good chance someone will be looking over his shoulder, so she greets him with “ _Bună dimineaţa_!”

 

“ _Salut_!” he says, grinning, their private signal that he isn’t alone. It looks like he might be in the study hall, some sort of pastry at his fingers and a cup with the string of a teabag hanging over its side. Continuing with their conversation in Romanian, he asks “ _Did you have fun with Julie_?”

 

“ _Eh_ ,” she answers, because that’s really all the response she needs to give. Istvan will understand.

 

“ _Ah_ ,” he says, nodding. “ _Did you_ -”

 

He is cut off by a group of boys hanging around behind him and peering at Ionela through his laptop. Judging from the wrinkle of Istvan’s nose, he probably smells like the inside of a keg. “Dude, who’s the hottie? Is that like, your girlfriend?”

 

Another says “Get her to get naked or something! We’ll pretend we aren’t here!”

 

“Stupid,” a third says, elbowing him. “If they were sexting, why would he be in the commons?”

 

Without giving a hint that she understands English, Ionela watches Istvan roll his eyes and huff. “ _Are they all this stupid or did you just get lucky this morning_?”

 

“ _Some are worse than others-_ ”

 

He is cut off, yet again, by a frat boy who peers at Ionela through the screen, squinting in a very unattractive fashion. She bets he needs glasses and won’t wear them because he’s dumb and vain. “Is she speaking like, Spanish? It’s really sexy!”

 

Annoyed, Istvan says “It’s Romanian.”

 

In a move that only Bobbi could have taught her, Ionela smiles her most angelic and benevolent smile before saying sweetly: “ _Go fuck your mother, you stupid pig!”_

 

Her smile curls up wider at poor Istvan’s face, going nearly purple as he tries not to burst out laughing and give the game away.

 

The only time he ever got detention in school was because of his sister. When she was particularly annoyed with someone, she would often look at her brother and speak in a normal tone using Romanian, so that only he could understand her. This once led to Istvan being thrown out of a classmate after laughing hysterically for five straight minutes when Ionela told the teacher:

 

 _I hope a dog bites your dick off! Ah, no…I guess that would be animal cruelty_!

 

Wheezing, he pleads “Ionela… _Oprește-te, te rog_!”

 

“ _You’re right_ ,” Ionela agrees pleasantly, still with her beatific expression, like a pettiness queen sitting on her throne of spite. “ _Even his mother wouldn’t with a dick that small_ …”

 

She grins at Istvan’s expression, tears of suppressed laughter gathering at the corners of his eyes. “ _I hate you…you are actually the worst…_ ”

 

“ _I’m magnificent_!” she says, winking at the frat boy and cooing “ _Run along you mangy disgusting little cur, before you give my brother fleas!_ ”

 

Choking on his laughter, Istvan says “ _La revedere, tulburătoare fată_!”

 

And with a glint in her eye, Ionela responds in her perfect, barely accented English. “Goodbye, you fool!”

\---

Her only class today goes until two, then she dumps her school bag, heavy with books, onto the bed and says hello to Julie before immediately turning around and going into the subway at Cathedral. She is not quite asleep, headphones in her ears listening to last night’s news report as she hugs her purse all the way to Bed-Stuy. At Jay Street, she has to transfer to the F, and it’s just a short ride to the Bergen Street station where she gets off.

 

She lets herself walk the familiar neighborhood with slow feet, feeling herself relax. A quick stop at a bodega lets her take her well-loved cat ears from her purse and perch the headband among the thick waves of her dark hair. As a peace offering, she buys a king-size Snickers and a large bag of Doritos and wanders back out into the sleepy afternoon. People give her looks with the ears on, but here she’s just another face in the crowd.

 

At Kane Street, there’s a beautiful synagogue made of warm bricks she always likes to stop at and just…exist among the stained glass depictions.

 

She doesn’t remember going to church as a child, though most people in Sokovia did. Ionela’s mother Adriana was removed from her church for refusing to obey her parents’ wishes to terminate her illegitimate children. As the offspring in question, she and Istvan were not welcome to join. Aunt Lucia wouldn’t even bring them into the building – they stayed home every Sunday.

 

Tătic doesn’t go – in his childhood, going to church made him very uncomfortable, is all he will say.

 

She does go when Dad attends, though his is a Catholic church. At Christmas, at Easter. For Nanny Sarah’s birthday and the day he and Tătic got married. One in February. Tătic explained to them that before he loved them, Dad loved three other children: a boy, and a pair of twins. A boy and a girl, just like her and Istvan. The eldest grew up and became a fine man, and so did the girl-twin, but the boy was killed, years ago, in February.

 

She thinks she understands why. It is here that she closes her eyes and tries to recall her vague memories of Adriana. Istvan insists that she has her voice, especially when she sings. Her eyes, too, the same ‘cat eyes’ of dark amber, not the rich darkness of Istvan’s eyes.

 

She thinks of her biological father, who is a mystery. Lucia used to tell them that he was a foreigner, but she didn’t know from where.

 

As she studies the way the light illuminates the glass, Ionela wonders if Dražen, the distant cousin who looked after them, may have been their real father. Adriana wouldn’t have been able to marry him, because he was already engaged to someone else, and not happily. She remembers very little about Dražen, but he was very fond of the twins, and happy to talk about their late mother. Perhaps he was the man who helped create them, or perhaps he was simply a kind relative who wished to honor the memory of a woman he’d loved, even abstractly.

 

Sighing at her own thoughts, which were unlikely to move anywhere productive, she continued on to the small bookshop tucked behind the synagogue, it’s door a stately dark green. “ _Annyeonghaseyo, Oh Ha-yoon shi_ ,” she murmurs to the old woman behind the counter, well put together in her linen pants and light summer blouse. She gives a little bow. “ _Jeong-bak shi_?”

 

She smiles at Ionela, papery skin wrinkling at the corners of her eyes. “ _Wicheung-e_.”

 

“ _Gomabseubnida_!” Grinning, Ionela leaves a can of lychee soda on the front counter for her before going up the back staircase to the upper apartments.

 

“You’re late, Peach,” Jake grumps at her. To the headset, he says “Peach is here – yes, hold on. Yes. Jesus, let her go to the bathroom first.”

 

“Hi, Aunt Daisy!” she calls stopping in the hallway. “I come in peace and Doritos!”

 

“Better be spicy!” he yells back, just before she closes the door.

 

Jacob Oh was the twins’ friend almost from the first day of school. On the outside, twins who fled Sokovia as ten-year-old refugees didn’t have a lot in common with the only child of an overprotective Korean mom who’d never seen the Pacific.

 

But they were children who’d come to America, changed their birth names to fit in with the culture, and had deeply loving parents with a large and gloriously weird extended family.

 

Ionela half-suspected that Jake has a crush on Istvan, but she was never comfortable bringing it up because Jake had only ever dated girls and Istvan hadn’t exactly made his sexual orientation a secret.

 

Fixing her own headset on and cracking open an orange soda, she says “Okay, who’ve we got today?”

 

“I’m Toad,” Yelena says cheerfully. Uncle Clint laughs and says “I’ll be Mario.”

 

“We’re Daisy and Yoshi!” Daisy calls.

 

“We?”

 

“I’m playing,” Uncle Fitz says, suddenly popping into the conversation with a slight cough. “Sorry, erm…there was a fire…”

 

Chuckling slightly, Bobbi says “I’ll be Rosalina.”

 

“Bowser and Peach are ready to go,” Ionela says, “Everyone ready to start?”

 

“YES!”

 

Having assured her title as Peach, Princess of the race track once more, Ionela sits on the couch with Jake watching Stargate and cooing to Jake’s enourmous cat Tsum Tsum. Tsum Tsum is black and white, fluffy, and approximately the size of a coffee table, and Ionela has to be talked out taking him with her every time she visits. Luckily, before she can attempt to sneak him into her purse, Jake’s mom Ann-Marie calls them for dinner.

 

“ _Mas-issneun_!” she moans, licking Korean barbecue from her fingers and pouring thick stripes of sriracha over her fried rice.

 

Grandma Ha-yoon pinches her cheek. “ _Eotteon yeppeun yeoja_! _Jeong-bak, wae geunyeoleul deiteuhaji?”_

 

Jake chokes and Ann-Marie says, “Have more to eat, Ionela!”

 

“Oh, no, Mama,” she says, grimacing at the thought of the size 12 dresses currently lining her closet. “I’m getting so full!”

 

Later, the sun sunken down beyond the not-so-distant Manhattan skyline, Ionela washes the dishes with Jake. They don’t say goodbye – they don’t ever say goodbye – but Jake gives her half a hug and kisses her behind one furry black ear. “M.T.'s at six on Saturday.”

 

She smiles and sighs. “Have I ever been late for a show?”

 

“You’re not fat,” is all he will say.

 

She sighs again. “See you Saturday.”

 

The train ride home is spent on the phone with Dad, and she’s still talking to him about Ann-Marie’s cooking – “-and Daddy, it was _so spicy_ , but it was delicious-” – when she walks straight into someone exiting her dorm room. “Ow! Sorry! Sorry! No, Dad, it’s okay, I…”

 

She trails off, stopping dead in her tracks to stare at Dana, reflexively clenching her fingers on her phone. Dad says, “Ionela? Ionela? Darling, is everything alright?”

 

“Uh, no-no, everything is fine,” she mumbles to her father. “ _Noapte bună_!”

 

“ _Noapte bună_!” Dad says. “I’ll see you in a few days, pet.”

 

“I’ll be there,” she vows, breathless at the sight of Dana’s dark, liquid eyes – lined with navy pencil, they do such strange things to her heart. Today he is wearing a beautiful suit – pink, and covered in flowers. On another man, it might look feminine, but on Dana it was devastating. Oh, _what_ is she doing? “Bye-bye.”

 

Dana’s eyes take her in – what does he see, when he looks at her? – and quietly says “Hello.”

 

“H-h-hi.” She only just stops herself from visibly grimacing at her own awkwardness.

 

“Jack was looking for you,” he says, head cocked. Still examining her – why?

 

“O-oh?” _Why I am so bad at this?_

 

He nods. “She-”

 

“Is standing right here,” Jack says dryly, giving Dana a speaking look as she swings open the door of Ionela’s dorm room. Ionela isn’t sure was that look says, though. “I’m prepping for a presentation directly to Ms. Potts on Monday. I need someone to talk at me. Wanna have a cuppa with me tomorrow?”

 

“At? Not to?” Ionela asks, blinking.

 

“Definitely at,” Jack says firmly. “Are you free?”

 

Is this a date? It doesn’t seem like one, but she has no experience.

 

The people who went to high school with her remember the days she was the girl who only spoke passable English with a heavy accent and wore cat ears to school every single day. The only boy who’d ever asked her out did so with his friends giggling in the background. She’d said no, of course. She wasn’t a fool, no matter how bad her English was. Here she was the quiet girl, nothing special.

 

It’s not that she’s against dating Jack – dating women. She’d probably even be thrilled, but…she’d seen Dana first.

 

Still, chewing her lip and not looking at his long lean form studying her within that loud, alluring suit, she says “Yes, of course. I have a class at four, but I can talk at you before that.”

 

Jack beams. “Great! Give me your number, I’ll text you when I’ll ready to meet up.”

 

She isn’t sure why, as they leave, Jack’s still glaring at Dana.

\---

All the way back to the meeting point, Dana can feel Jacqueline seething at him. “Are you out of your mind?” she demands. “Why didn’t you just do it yourself, you bastard, instead of volunteering me?!”

 

“You’re the project leader,” he points out, which is no real answer and they both know it.

 

“I’m the project leader,” she agrees. “Which means that I’m on the verge of throwing you off this assignment and sending you back home to Cambridge. After four years together, I’ve never see you this unreliable. What is _wrong_ with you?”

 

“I have to talk to Tom,” he says, texting on his phone. “I need Powers to hurry.”

 

Julie is even more ill-tempered than Jack when she arrives. “You idiots were supposed to make this easier, not make sure she spends all day hiding from my sight. I can’t protect her when she runs away from me. What did you _do_?”

 

“My, my, my,” Tom says silkily, gaze traveling from one to the next. “What seems to be the problem, my wayward young phantoms?”

 

Jacqueline and Dana straighten to attention immediately, closing their mouths and looking contrite and alert. This doesn’t surprise him – they were both trained by Kamala, who learned her craft from Carol herself. He has faith that they are well disciplined. They are standing before their Ghostly grandfather, and they both know it, which is an honor not many can claim, particularly among later generations than theirs.

 

Julie Powers on the other hand – Tom would put money that Julie and her brother Alex have either Deadpool or Mystique somewhere in their lineage – they have that same cavalier attitude about her, and they are rather notorious for being the Scourge’s version of a wild child. She sneers at them, slurps her frappe, and hisses “They’ve done something to freak her out!”

 

To his further surprise, Dana blurts out “I would like to recuse myself from filing official records, sir. I will still protect her, I will still carry out the assignment as you ask, but I request to be omitted from reviews and banned from official documents regarding Ionela Barnes.”

 

Tom blinks. “Why? You give up any control over the records and your performance will not be available for consideration in future.”

 

Firmly staring straight ahead with a blank gaze and without meeting Tom’s eyes, Dana says “I’m sexually attracted to her, sir.”

 

Tom’s brow lifts. Not only is that a bold pronouncement, considering that Dana knows Ionela is his niece, but also technically his boss, it’s also very puzzling. “I’m not sure why you feel that requires your recusal. Surely you realize that will only benefit my purposes. Feeling attraction or affection for her will guarantee you do not fail in your job to guard her.”

 

“I want to date her,” he clarifies. “Sir. I would prefer to have your permission first. I know it is not necessarily appropriate to become attached to a target…”

 

Tom smiles and shakes his head. He recalls over a decade ago when Steve Rogers spoke a few kind words to a traumatized man and couldn’t seem to leave his image behind him. “Not generally, no. She is an extraordinary girl. You have my professional permission, but you will of course need Ionela’s opinion on this.”

 

Jack cracks a grin and teases Dana “You might start out with getting her real name from her first.”

 

Dana cringes. He’s generally pretty good at getting people to talk to him, but Ionela Barnes isn’t having it. She has a soft little voice that speaks in a murmur, she tries to back away from his physical person, and she seems to avoid even directly looking at him. He gestures to the floral pattern of his pants and asks Tom “She won’t be put off by…?”

 

“Your frankly atrocious fashion sense and flagrant refusal to put up with societal gender beliefs?” Tom has a strange twinkle in his eyes. “I doubt that offends her.”

 

Walking home after their brief conference, Jack says gently “You could’ve just told me you like her. Tom wouldn’t be enough of a bastard to take the internship deals away just because you’ve got a crush on our target.”

 

Running a hand through his long hair, Dana mutters “She’s scared of me.”

 

“Give her a bit of time,” Jack says, ever the optimist. “I doubt she’s ever met anyone like you – she probably thinks you’re gay.”

 

Scowling he says “I’m not turning into someone else for her. I’ve worked too hard for this freedom to throw it away.”

 

“I didn’t say you should,” she says mildly. “But you have to let her ease into the idea. She’s younger than you, shy, has no experience, and there aren’t many guys comfortable enough to dress the way you do, Dana. Just let her get used to you.” With a pinch to his cheek, Jack adds “You’re a nice guy, when you aren’t being a huge pain in my arse…”

 

“Ha, ha, ha.”

 

He's never been someone who believed in love at first sight.

 

He still can't explain the way her eyes, looking into his the moment she'd lifted her head, had hit him like a punch to the gut. Her picture didn't quite do her justice in Dana's mind, couldn't convey the almost musical lilt of her voice, and the way she moved her hands slightly in the air as she was talking. The light way she walked, almost a dance, and her perfume, which is a curious smell of vanilla and mint - like spearmint gum. Now if only he get her to bloody _look at him_ again.

 

Behind them, Julie scoffs loudly. “You and Nellie No-Fun? You’re _dreaming,_ Bashir.” Tossing her hair, she says “I’ve been that girl’s roommate for our entire freshman year – I doubt she knows how to get herself off, never mind _you_.”

 

Feeling strangely protective of Ionela, Jack snaps “You only took this job because it gave you a full ride to Columbia, Powers. Don’t pretend you’ve put any effort into getting to know her.”

 

“How can you know someone who never talks?” she asks coolly. “She isn’t evil or stupid, just incredibly dull. In fact, I think she might be the most boring person alive, but if you want to give that a go, good luck, Bashir.”

 

Baring his teeth at her, which gives Dana the look of a feral dog, he says “Go take a long walk off a short pier, Powers. You’ve spent almost a year fucking up this assignment, as far as I can tell. I don’t need advice from you.”

 

But it did occur to him that he could use some advice, though. Dana texts Fenrir.

ME:

Any tips on getting her to look less terrified when I talk to her?

 

He’s half-expecting to be told off, to do his own research.

 

T.H.:

Hobbies?

 

Back of the neck prickling, Dana responds.

 

ME:

Reading, tea, knitting – according to Powers.

 

Tom’s response excites him more than two letters have any right to.

 

T.H.:

No.

 

ME:

No, don’t listen to Julie or no, those aren’t her hobbies?

 

T.H.:

Stop relying on Powers’ intel and go get some of your own.

 

T.H.:

Powers has already received disciplinary action from her superiors about her performance this year.

 

T.H.:

You come from my own lineage, Bashir. I expect better from you and Crichton.

 

ME:

Thank you, sir.

 

T.H.:

Thank me after she’s taken you home to meet her fathers.

 

_Oh shit._

 

Well...hadn’t thought about that, had he?

 

End Part One

Continued in Part Two – Hey There, Peach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intended these to be one chapter per story then realized those would be very long chapters. 
> 
> (Please let me know how explicit you're comfortable with this getting as well, because we could slide anywhere from T to E on this first story alone. I'm really excited to hear what you think of Adult!Ionela.)


	2. Hey There, Peach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ur shite @ this job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is getting so loooong. Why do I do this to myself? Head's up - next chapter will be like, 75% sex, but I promise it has a point.

Dana figures he has a few different options, but in the end, he knows there is only one if he’d like to keep his life – and hopefully his dignity, but no promises – intact.

 

The building is in Red Hook, made of rust-red bricks, looking pretty similar to the ones on either side of it. Only the number in gold letters over the door – 296 – lets him know that he has found the right place.

 

Though he looks around for a call-button – he hates to show up uninvited, but he needs to do this in person – there is none. To his astonishment, the front door is actually…open, leading straight into a front foyer that looks like something from a very nice public library. White-gray marble floors, warm colored wood and brass details, the plaques on the wall tell him that the second floor is an eye doctor and two dentists, and the third floor seems to belong entirely to a marketing firm. Conspicuously missing from that plaque are the details for the occupants on the ground and fourth floors.

 

There is no access to anywhere else on the ground floor, though. The elevator is designed to open on both sides but on this floor, the only side that will open faces the foyer. Praying that the security here is a little laxer than Stark’s building, he tentatively walks into the elevator and presses the ‘4’ button in the hope that he won’t be gassed as soon as the doors close.

 

The elevator ride seems terrifying long and when it reaches the top, there is a mechanical clicking sound as the elevator locks in place that has all of Dana’s muscles tensing. An electronic female voice says “You have requested access to a restricted floor. Please state your name and the party you would like to reach.”

 

Swallowing, he nevertheless sounds steady when he says “Dana Bashir. I would like to talk to Mister Barnes and Mister Rogers.”

 

There is a long pause before whatever mechanical device clicked again and the elevator opened directly onto another foyer, leaving Dana staring at walls of exposed bricks and a set of coats hung up, languishing until wintertime. Another elevator is to the left of the one he exits, but this one has a keypad and it shows a symbol above that – a red closed lock.

 

A large, well-muscled man with dark hair – Barnes – is making lunch in the kitchen as he walks in, gently tossing roasted cauliflower in some herbs before plating it next to some white fish. A small television on the kitchen island, sitting in front of the place settings, murmurs quietly. After a moment, he realizes that the newscaster is not speaking English, which is probably why the evening news is playing at noon.

 

James glances over at him, gives his outfit a raised eyebrow and Dana stares back.

 

Why yes, he is wearing a dress with a see-through skirt of black lace and smart black men’s trousers. Yes, that is silver glitter on his eyelids. Yes, he is wearing high-heels. Yes, his hair is braided. He looks goddamn fabulous, thanks for asking.

 

Half the reason he took this job was no one in the Scourge gave two fucks about what he wears and when. The clothes he chooses to walk around in should not be the subject of other people’s opinion.

 

He is used to the staring.

 

Dana was the only child of first generation immigrants. His grandparents on both sides managed to claw their way to the upper class of London society. Having acquired his grandparents’ wealth through inheritance, his parents were thirsty to cement their place among the nouveau riche. From the day he could walk and talk, Dana seemed to do nothing but carry other people’s expectations around for them.

 

Wear a boy’s suit (why?), be straight (why?), go to university (why?), marry an equally wealthy Pakistani girl (why?), produce a son (why?), be a doctor/lawyer/politician (why?).

 

To manage that level of expectation was not only cripplingly exhausting for Dana, even worse…it was just. So. Fucking. _Boring_. The life they wanted him to live was the most boring one Dana could imagine, and they were absolutely relentless in their pursuit of it. His own wishes and autonomy were completely ignored.

 

With a smile, Dana thinks that if he still talked to his parents, they would likely be appalled at his current desire of partner.

 

Ionela was a white girl, which would disappoint them but would be livable in their minds. No, it was worse than that – she was the white bastard daughter of a housemaid from a country widely considered to be practically third-world, raised by two unapologetically gay men.

 

They should count themselves lucky. He might’ve seen Istvan first.

 

 _Hm, no, on second thought_ , Dana thinks, glancing at a picture of the twins beside the opening to the hall. Their first Christmas in America, little more than a month after they were adopted, just eleven years old. Ionela is giving a shy smile over her shoulder while farther in, Istvan stares directly at the camera, clutching a brand new StarkPad, spooked and somber.

 

Ionela might be timid, but Istvan was downright dour. He couldn’t stomach that.

 

“Sit down,” James orders, not unkindly. “You eat meat?”

 

“Not much,” he admits.

 

“Hm,” James hums, neither censor nor approval, before calling down the hall. “ _Dragule_?”

 

A deep voice replies, distractedly “Yes, _mishka_?”

 

“Ionela’s security detail has come for a visit,” he tells his husband, setting a plate in filled with the heavenly smelling vegetables in front of him.

 

Dana blinks at James. “How-?”

 

Adding a fragrant heap of rice to the plate, James says “Nobody calls him ‘Rogers’ unless it’s someone Tom knows.” Well, they both knew what _that_ is code for. “Your accent and outfit on top of that is basically a flashing neon sign for me. Also, you should try to walk less like…”

 

“…I’m hunting something,” he agrees quietly, staring at the beautiful mixture of colors on the plate. The criticism is a familiar one, something Kamala often chastised him for. “Yes, sir. You don’t need to feed me, sir.”

 

Out of his sightline, Bucky’s eyes soften. What an odd young man, the duality of his beauty and the lithe power to his form. As with most members of the Underworld he’s met, Bucky finds that he likes him, almost right away. “I don’t _need_ to do anything,” he says lightly. “And this isn’t the army, so ‘Bucky’ will do just fine. ‘James’ if you can’t manage that.”

 

He is relieved to see Dana’s shoulders beginning to relax slightly. “Yes…James.”

 

Bucky probably should’ve realized that he would immediately tense up again as soon as Steve walks up to the counter. If he hadn’t known before, that definitely would’ve given the game away. To a normal person, _Bucky_ was the dangerous one. To a not normal person, Steve was terrifying.

 

Bucky had known his little darling was a star, but the plainclothes Scourges practically shit themselves every time Steve walked into the room. “So you are the replacement, hm?”

 

Dana blanches with the fork halfway to his mouth as Steve eyes him critically.

 

“For god – _leave him alone_ and eat something,” Bucky scolds. “There’s plenty of time to terrorize him.” 

 

Suddenly nauseous, Dana delicately puts the fork onto the plate and pushes it away from himself, turning to face Steve with a neutral expression and perfect posture. “Sir.”

 

Cocking his head, Steve says “Show me your registration chip.”

 

Turning the silver watch on his wrist over, Dana shows him the barcode on the back, which Steve scans with a non-commercial app on his StarkPhone.

 

Immediately the phone projects a holographic image onto the wall that shows Dana’s entire lineage through the Scourge, - the registration map was meant to show a Spooks entire origin, from the original World War II member of the Underworld that started, to any trainees he or she may have successfully sent through graduation.

 

Bucky has only seen two of these before, and they were from Natasha’s parents. Alian was, as Steve stated, from Wolverine’s line of Spooks, and Illyana was from Professor X’s. While they don’t talk much about it, Bucky has gathered that the Scourge do tend to place a certain amount of value on which of the seven people they originally came from, and even from which branch of those seven.

 

Steve had told Natasha that people in the Wolverine line were no-nonsense workhorses who tended to select just one protégé – if that one student was killed, they rarely selected another. Professor X, just like her mother and uncle, was a more strategic thinker – he and his students had laid down many of the rules and regulations the Scourge still followed today, the procedures for concealment, tracking, and evidence-gathering that was the foundation of their work.

 

His own line, Steve once told Bucky, was frequently known for how relentless they were at pursuit, doing anything and everything to bring down their prey. The originator’s name, it turned out, was Golden Girl – which he now knew, because right there in Dana’s line was his own husband’s call-sign.

                                                                 The Apocalypse Twins

Peacemaker                Spitfire

       Dana M. R. Bashir       Jacqueline F. Crichton

 

“So,” Steve drawls, and Dana flinches. “ _Peacemaker_. That’s a very interesting name, especially considering that your partner is called _Spitfire_.”

 

Bucky begins eating his lunch to hide his smile. One partner starting the fights and the other partner attempting to prevent them was a dynamic Steve was intimately familiar with.

 

Steve selects their profiles and Dana grimaces at the picture – display portraits were always taken immediately after acceptance. In theirs, Dana has half his hair shaved off, a visibly split lip, and had enormous dark circles under his eyes. Jack’s blonde hair was beautifully long and curled, but all the makeup in the world couldn’t hide that black eye.

 

“It says here that your former teacher, a Cambridge professor who works with us, located you six months after your disappearance from university, practically homeless in Leamouth, but you refused to accept unless your friend Jack was also considered – Ms. Jacqueline Crichton, a prostitute from Bethnal Green.” Steve looks at the young man sitting at his table, staring back at him with a studiously blank expression.

 

“Sex worker,” he corrects quietly, and Steve gives him an acquiescing nod.

 

Dana had run away from Cambridge – from his studies, his parents, his whole damn life. In London, people looked at his posh accent and the way he dressed, and they’d salivated like wolves. Penniless, obviously different, and clueless about how to protect himself, he was easy pickings. Those first two months alone, he must’ve been beat up at least two or three times a week. And no one had cared. Not until Jack. “Poor lamb,” she’d said. “Let’s get you lookin’ less stepped on.”

 

Jack had a heart like diamond, tough and priceless, and Dana loved her like his own blood. He didn’t give a fuck what people thought of her past – she’d fought for him when everyone else was dragging his sorry arse through the dirt. He wasn’t going to repay her by leaving her in that shithole, not when he knew she was desperately looking for a way out.

 

“So, you’re loyal, you don’t care much about conventions of class…or gender, I suppose, and you aren’t afraid to take risks to get what you want. Welcome to Brooklyn, Mister Bashir.”

 

Dana stares with surprise as Steve offers his hand, looking genuinely pleased. Dazed, he shakes his hand. “Thank you, sir. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

 

“A pleasure to call you one of ours. I very much hope that there isn’t a problem with my daughter?”

 

Oh boy. “No, sir.” He swallows, keeping his back straight. He won’t get cocky – he isn’t a fool – but he will try best he can not to be cowed, either. He has a feeling Steven and James will appreciate that much, at least, even if they’re less impressed with the rest of what he’s going to say. “Ionela is…a very sweet girl.”

 

Even without her talking to him, he can see that. She is considerate of others, helpful, polite. _Jesus, no wonder she and Julie aren’t a good fit_.

 

“Well, we can’t take the credit for that,” James admits, with a crooked smile at the mention of his daughter. Proud, Dana notes, despite his words. Istvan and Ionela are obviously his pride and joy, the apple of James’ eye. Maybe they weren’t his by birth, but you’d never know it. “The two of you have already met?”

 

He nods and resists the urge to fidget, knowing that will do nothing to help his cause. “Yes, sir. James. Which is why I have recused myself from official duty on her protection detail.” Steven narrows his eyes at him, and Dana struggles to maintain even tone of voice and direct eye contact. “I would like to begin a relationship with her, sir.”

 

“Are you asking for…what, my blessing?” Steven demands, rather harshly.

 

“I don’t want you think that I’m conning her, sir. If this gets serious, I knew you’d find out who I really am. I’m not asking permission – the only one I want is Ionela’s. But I’ll be as honest with her as I can.”

 

Gently, Bucky squeezes his husband’s shoulder. These are not really so different from the words of a younger Steve Rogers, falling deeper and deeper in love with Bucky Barnes.

 

Steve blinks. “You didn’t _tell_ her you were the security detail, I assume?”

 

Dana blinks back. “Noooo, sir…? Wait, she _knows_ that she has a security detail?”

 

Bucky tries not to laugh in the poor boy’s face. “You have to understand…they did not have the nicest of childhoods, before they came to us. They are…sensitive. Very perceptive. Istvan, especially. We try not to lie to our kids. You say you’ve met – _where_ did you meet?”

 

“A pub – a bar,” he corrects himself. “Powers – _Lightspeed_ – brought her in so Jack and I could meet her in a public area.”

 

“You and Crichton?” Steve sighs with a small chuckle. “Were you wearing something like that? Oh, Bashir, she _definitely_ knows what you are.”

 

With a smile, Bucky adds “I’m surprised she didn’t call you _James Bond_.”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“It’s what she and Istvan call the Underworld. I don’t allow them to know what it’s called but they know that their grandparents – _Cloak and Dagger_ – Tom, Carol, and I were all a part of it at one time or another. They’ve taken to calling it _the James Bond Society_ instead.”

 

Dana’s mouth lifts at this piece of information, that she can be playful and witty. “Bashir. Dana Bashir.” Grimaces. “Just don’t give a martini – olives are the devil’s fruit.”

 

James claps him on the shoulder and it feels like victory. “Amen.”

 

“I was wondering…Tom hinted that if I want to ask her on a date, I should get to know her hobbies. Any chance your willing to help a Spook out?”

 

James and Steven give each other A Look. “You should check out M.T.’s in Williamsburg, tomorrow night,” James finally says, absently petting his husband’s pale hair with his metal fingers. “I guarantee that’s where she’ll be. She’ll spend the rest of the weekend with us, so make you catch her in time.”

 

Steven snorts, which…doesn’t seems like a great sign?

 

Aw, shite.

\---

Dana isn’t totally hopeless, so he does a little research beforehand. M.T.’s is a dance club, which is surprising in itself. It’s specialty seems to be live music, with an act booked for tomorrow night – ‘Smitten Kitten and the Frantic Fox’. It doesn’t look like a large club, though, so it shouldn’t be too hard to find her in there.

 

The show starts at six and he arrives just after, the club already packed near to bursting, the people dancing and singing along with the performer on stage, a woman dressed fully in a white leather cat-suit.

 

Jesus, these people wouldn’t look twice at the way Dana dresses – wild colors and prints, none of them paying very much attention to gender norms and most of them wearing animal ears of one species or another. _Ionela actually likes this? Ionela_ dresses _this way?_

 

Finding her might be a little challenging – the place is packed with people and they are all having a very good time, dancing and singing with the cat-woman – Smitten Kitten – who seems to do electro-pop.

 

He is looking for a voluptuous girl with dark hair in the crowd, eyes scanning up and down in the flashing lights, occasionally watching the singer as he looked for his vanishing girl. The singer – he would assume this was ‘Smitten Kitten’, wore a white leather cat-suit that zippered just over her ample bust and including a powder-pink floof of a tail just above her buttocks, to accompany her fluffy pastel-pink ears. Black makeup around her eyes gave her the appearance of a wild cat, like a cheetah, and her full lips were painted a slick shimmering gold.  

 

Behind her, managing a turn table, must be ‘Frantic Fox’, a young man with electric blue contacts and face paint and a pair of fox ears perch in his dark, spiked up hair.

 

There was a cute young blonde girl with ponytails in the first row – who was definitely _not_ out of high school yet – wearing puppy dog ears and a baby blue crop-top who knew every single word to every single song. Dana, with a sudden startling awareness, realizes that he _knows_ this girl – this is Yelena Barton, Ionela’s beloved cousin, but Ionela herself is nowhere to be found, even after Dana has kept track of her for fifteen straight minutes, just to see if Ionela left Yelena to stop at the bar or the restroom.

 

Around them, abruptly, the lights go up in the first row where they are standing and the whole crowd, apparently expecting this, begins cheering. Frantic Fox says, “Ladies and gentlemen, pussy-cats and vixens, hounds and hares and horses – you _know_ what time it is!”

 

The house music comes on and the whole crowd begins singing along as the wickedly grinning Kitten reaches into her cleavage _– holy shit_ – and pulls out a bright yellow patterned silk scarf, swaying her hips with a seductive air as she descends the short stairs toward the front-row barricade where the crowd is, running the fabric through her fingers.

 

Around them, he realizes what the crowd is singing:

 

_Open heart, open mind, never know who you’ll find!_

_Open heart, close your eyes – kissing strangers!_

 

_Holy shit._

 

And then he hears the bell tied around Kitten’s tail, swaying along with the strut of her walk. Yellow silk wraps around his neck, and pulls him down so that Dana can look into her eyes. Gold glitter shimmers on her eyelashes amid the black mask of makeup, her dark hair twisted into two little buns behind her fluffy ears. Her breasts are begging to be liberated from that tight white leather, and _he is the man for the job. Holy shit, Ionela._

 

With a tug on the scarf, Ionela pulls him down to kiss her, and Dana reaches out automatically to cup her gloriously full arse, giving her a longing squeeze before she giggles and backs away, her accent too heavy to be anything but on purpose as she says, “ _Naughty_ boy! Smile for camera!”

 

They take a selfie, the yellow silk still wrapped around his neck and a gold lipstick mark on his cheek, her cleavage a monument to the greatness of humanity, both grinning as the crowd around the dances and cheers. “Can you send that to me?” he asks her, having to speak over the music.

 

Ionela blinks and says, still disguising her voice with that heavy accent “Of course! Every show has Strange Kiss posted to website!” He tries to give her back the scarf, but she shakes her head. “You keep shawl! I give new one each time!”

 

He watches the rest of the show with a dazed, wild grin. The silk smells like her, smells like leather and female musk, and her perfume. Later that night, he finally sends a copy of the selfie to Julie after adding a caption.

 

ME:

** “Nellie No-Fun” **

Suck it Powers

Ur shite @ this job

:3

 

End Part Two

Continued in Part Three - Oh Dana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanna know what kind of music Smitten Kitten and Frantic Fox would do? Check out:  
> "Eros and Apollo" by Studio Killers  
> "Fire Hive (Fuck On Me remix)" by Krewella  
> "I'm Gonna Show You Crazy" by Bebe Rexha  
> "Lone Digger" by Caravan Palace  
> This should give you a nice sample of what I think she'd do :)


	3. Oh Dana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey would you like to see two people make really poor decisions with and about each other? No? Here you go!
> 
> For those of you who'd like to visualize, Ionela Barnes would be played by a young Ioana Flora (+30-40 lbs), Istvan Barnes would be a young Stefan Banica Jr, Yelena Barton is Olesya Rulin, Jacqueline Crichton would be Alice Eve with Carol's comic-cover haircut, Jacob Oh is a young Will Yun Lee, Julie Powers would be Kiernan Shipka, and Dana Bashir is Imran Abbas.
> 
> (My friend informs me that I've modeled Dana's fashion after Harry Styles. That is extraordinary, as I didn't know what Harry Styles looked like until about two weeks ago but if you'd like a reference, there you go I guess.)

May 2028

He waits until after the club-goers have left, until Jake – because now that the house lights are on, he can see that Frantic Fox is actually Jacob Oh in colored contacts – packs up his own sound equipment.

 

“Ionela-” she looks startled, caught out that someone knows her by name here. “-can I walk you home?”

 

“I have to change first,” she says uncertainly, staring at her feet instead of him.

 

 _Change on my bed_ , Dana thinks. He smiles, a slow seductive thing he knows can make the right man or woman weak in the knees. Ionela wobbles and the smile deepens.

 

She never does bother changing – and he never does bother walking her home. They drink Coke Zero on the way back to the train station. People stare at both of them and Dana tries not to actively undress her with his eyes in public or walk like he’s hunting her down the way a lion hunts a gazelle.

 

“Will you come over to mine?” he whispers, as they walk down the stairs into the station.

 

Biting her lip, Ionela nods.

 

He touches her the whole way into East Village, just little things, but he can’t help himself. She leans into him, presses herself into his side on the train. He has an arm around her waist as he finds the key to his building, gently petting the leather stretched over her ribs and if his fingers brush the underside of her breast, she doesn’t move away.

 

By the time they get into the elevator, Dana is so bold, it’s approaching suicidal. Facing the door, he trails his fingers slowly, gently between the curves of her arse and between supple muscles of her thighs, giving her pussy just the lightest of brushes, over and over, until Ionela is panting as they stare at the elevator doors, one of her hands clutching desperately onto the back of his shirt.

 

He’s a bit ashamed to say that they never even make it into his bedroom – _thank god_ Jack had talked him out of going in on a flat together. He lays her down right on the living room carpet, all those lush curves encased in white leather, breasts straining against her zipper. _Liberation_!, his cock screams, _Freedom from your clothing oppression!_

 

Her fingers play nervously with that zipper, looking up at him with her toffee-amber eyes from beneath her the gold glitter gilding on her lashes. “No,” he murmurs, “Let me do that, _sheranee_.”

 

And he does. With his teeth. “ _O Doamne_ ,” Ionela whispers to the ceiling, closing her eyes and putting the back of her hand to her mouth. “Dana…”

 

In retrospect, the moment before that was basically the last chance Dana ever had of escaping this relatively free from pain – the instant his name left her mouth that way, he’d never be free of her again, not truly.

 

“Do you want this?” he asks her softly, kissing the creamy ivory swell of each breast, liberated from their cruel prison. “We don’t have to…”

 

She trembles but says “Yes.”

 

Dana does take Ionela’s virginity on the living room carpet, but since he isn’t a selfish arsehole, he finds ways to get her to say his name like that for almost an hour first. After that, he has unleashed something neither of them can really control. It’s clear to him that apart from being a virgin, Ionela has never _thought_ of herself as a sexual creature. She has never known herself and the way she can experience physical pleasure, a thing which Dana takes great enjoyment in showing her, as many times a night as she wants.

 

It…sort of goes down hill from there, though?

 

August 2028

They burn through two boxes of condoms in the first week alone, because they can’t keep their hands off each other, and they rarely manage to make it all the way to the bedroom.

 

He takes Ionela on the living room carpet… (where she presses her fingers to her mouth, presumably to keep herself from screaming, but every now and then a soft “ _Dana_ ” is choked out from the back of her throat and it makes his pulse thunder through his ears like she’d screamed it anyway.)

 

…the sofa… (draping her back over one of the arms like an expensive afghan, plush and heavy, her magnificent breasts filling each of his palms with warm soft weight, the rings on each of her hands cold against the feverish heat of his skin.)

 

…standing in the hallway… (because they started out kissing and sort of never stopped, until he can wrap one of her legs around his waist and she squeals and whimpers when he spreads her body open on his cock.)

 

…spread out on his kitchen table… (even though she’d warned him she was too heavy for the table, it’s worth it anyway to drape her legs over his forearms and watch her shiver and sweat and moan – they don’t break the table but her beautifully manicured little fingernails gouge marks into his shoulders.)

 

…bent over the worktop… (later she will be appalled that she accidentally ripped one of cupboard doors from the hinges, but he can honestly say that he doesn’t care and barely noticed – he’d much rather keep his eyes on the glorious, hypnotizing curve of her arse.)

 

…leaning against the wall of his shower… (once he figured out that she can handle something rough, he holds her just above the elbows and takes her hard, almost carelessly, her long hair a heavy dark curtain on her back, the rushing water nearly drowning out her feverish whispers, which Dana doesn’t understand, but to him it sounds like praying.)

 

…even, once, down on all fours practically in the front doorway… (after she’d told him, very quietly in the taxi, her mouth next to his ear, to _Dana please hurry_ and he pushes her shoulders down and whispers _give it to you, sheranee, give you everything, anything you need.)_

 

By the end of the first month, there’s no place in his flat that hasn’t been used as sex furniture. More than once he’s felt a bit chagrined by his lack of self-control. He likes sex as much as the next human being, but never…like this.

 

She’s very self-conscious about some things, even still.

 

It takes Dana six weeks to get Ionela to be on top so he can watch her, and it takes even longer for him to make his case that she should really, really let him go down on her. And only then because they’re completely out of condoms and when this dawns on them both, Ionela really looks like she could cry.

 

What she does not know is that Dana’s favorite thing is giving head – man, woman, or unicorn, it really doesn’t matter. He loves spending time between his partner’s legs, and he’s wanted to get between hers since practically the moment he saw her – an urge that became worse after seeing her in that cat-suit.

 

Looking up into her desperate, nervous face, Dana pulls her arse to the edge of the couch and makes that girl fucking relax…four times. It’s still a thing she’s reluctant to let him do, but he certainly treasures the experience.

 

The only problem with this happy, heart-warming, rabbit-humping tale was that outside of sex, Ionela…doesn’t really talk to him. She’s still pretty taciturn around him, very quiet.

 

He goes to every show of course, and sometimes Jack goes with him, but he can’t be with Ionela all the time. She needs to be in class even during summer, and Stark Industries, while it treats interns much better than other company, sometimes requires that he spend between nine and twelve hours in the office whenever a brand new launch was scheduled.

 

They might be making some progress though.

 

“What can I do for my girl?”

 

He’s admittedly a bit of a slob when he’s not actively trying to keep the flat clean, so their clothes are all over his bedroom floor. Frankly, he’s just impressed they actually made it onto the bed this time.

 

“Can you, um…would…can you…” Her voice, stuttering and nervous, drops to a nearly inaudible whisper “…use your mouth?”

 

While shocked, Dana tries not to _look_ it because he doesn’t want her thinking that she shouldn’t’ve asked. It’s clear she barely managed the courage to say anything at all. He doesn’t get cutesy and tease with a cheesy line about where he should be using his mouth. Grinning, Dana kisses below her jaw, dropping lower and lower down her body. “Oh, _sheranee_ , I would _love_ to.”

 

Usually he would have to coax her or stop mid-coitus and do it while she’s _really_ gagging for it, and it would be nice to taste her without that faint hint of latex for the first ten minutes.

 

Giving head is his favorite thing, but there’s a certain sliding scale to that enjoyment. Men tend to be at the bottom of that scale because so many of them are so fucking rude about getting a blowjob. His girl, though, is always top of the list.

 

She’s completely shaved herself, which…hm, if he weren’t worried that she wasn’t ever going to ask again, he might say something to the effect of ‘that’s nice, but don’t do it for my sake’. Instead, he lavishes all that newly uncovered skin with attention, sucking soft, damp kisses along her outer labia. As long as she’s done it, he wants her to experience how different, how _sensitive_ everything is now.

 

Already, he can hear her breathing faster and holds off on the urge to smile. _Gotta a job to do here, Bashir_.

 

Right, right, right.

 

Flattening himself on the bed to get more comfortable, he uses long languid strokes of the tongue to pet at her smooth slit, moaning at the softness of her.

 

Ionela’s hips and thighs twitch restlessly and a little coaxing from Dana gets her to lift and drape one leg over his right shoulder, and puts her at an angle that gives him much better access.

 

He wonders if it will always make her blush, the way he doesn’t bother to hide wet sucking sound of kissing her here, groaning at the first taste of her and the way he can make her whisper to the darkness in her first language. Part of him hopes so. Part of him hopes she never loses that piece of innocence and shyness.

 

In spite of her blushing, Ionela puts her other hand between her legs and cups the back of his head – neither dragging him closer nor attempting to guide his pressure or rhythm, just needing a place of contact. Dana’s told Ionela before she can steer him all she likes, as long as she doesn’t get aggressive on his hair – he keep it long because likes having it played with, not having it yanked on.

 

A gentle suck on her clit startles a loud moan from her, her fingertips massaging at his scalp, rings pressing upon his skull. “ _Ah, Dumnezeule, mă vei face nebun_ ,” she whispers, covering her eyes. “ _Voi deveni prost_ , _Dana_!”

 

He loves the way she says his name, completely distinct from anyone else, her accent slipping to make it sound like ‘Dan-ah’ rather than ‘Day-nuh’. Groaning, he really starts going to work on her, lapping faster but no more firmly at her sex, humming with pleasure as she begins rocking against him.

 

Watching her is the second best thing about this, her breasts trembling and shaking, rose-colored flush spreading down her chest, her head thrown back against the pillow. “ _A-acolo_ ,” she gasps, still cupping his mouth against her body. “ _Da, da, o_ …”

 

 _Come on, little girl, come on. Let me get you there_. Her hips give a sharp sudden jerk, her mouth dropping open on a silent scream. _That’s my girl_.

 

The next morning though, she is as quiet as ever. Demure when he speaks to her as he cooks breakfast. Staring at their cups as she pours the coffee, rather than looking at him. Dana tries not to acknowledge the sudden wave of hopelessness that washes over him then.

 

He tries to remember Jack’s advice, that Ionela just needs time, just needs to be given the space to get to know him, and she will open up to him, trust him. Dana kinda thought she’d trusted him the first night they’d had sex, but he’s beginning to feel like the piece of rough she allows between her legs.

 

When they wake up, Ionela is like his own personal angel, dark lashes resting on her cheek, soft and naked on his sheets. But the more certain he is that he cares, the less certain he is that _she_ does.

\---

October 2028

Ionela shoves the clothes in her weekender bag into the front room’s washing machine almost before the elevator finishes closing, listening with anxiety for the sound of Tătic coming down the hallway. She generally does her own laundry nowadays, but occasionally Tătic will put the laundry in for her as she’s reviewing her study materials, along with his and Dad’s clothes. For the moment though, the whole apartment appears to be empty. Their flight to visit Aunt Rebecca in San Francisco isn’t until tonight but they probably need to make sure Tătic has a sedative beforehand.

 

Quickly, she also yanks her panties down from beneath her skirt, the crotch soaked despite leaving Dana over an hour ago. Cringing, she hurries to her bedroom for a clean pair, clucking at Jenny as she tries make Ionela trip over her own feet.

 

That anxious, sickening shame is how she seems to spend about a quarter of her time now, when she isn’t stressed out about school, or exhausted, or panting with lust.

 

She feels filthy.

 

She feels stupid.

 

What girl will go home with a guy she met two days ago and becomes so addicted to sex that she’ll let him screw her whenever, wherever, and however he wants? What girl is so desperate for attention that she goes home with the first guy to be nice to her and show any interest?

 

Ionela feels an almost overwhelming humiliation at the thought of anyone she knows finding out, because it’s one thing to know she’s a fool, it’s another for everyone else to know it, too.

 

Jake knows, because Jake watches her leave with him two nights a month and raises his eyebrows but doesn’t ask questions, because he’s a fantastic friend. And she may have told him Dana was part of her security, which was not technically a lie, but also meant Jake labored under the mistaken belief he was walking her back to her dorm than taking her to the East Village to make her brains dissolve.

 

Dana is an adult, a _real_ adult not some college age idiot-adult like her, and he can’t possibly want anything with her other than the obvious – the fact that he’s a member of her security just means that she can reasonably trust he won’t hurt her. At least not physically.

 

Emotionally…

 

She’s trying hard not become too attached, knowing it won’t serve her at all well, but…that’s becoming harder than she expected.

 

Dana is very nice to her. He’s charming to everyone, but he seems to save a special brand of seductive flare for whoever occupies his bed. He hadn’t even really noticed her until saw the Miss Kitty persona.

 

He’s nice in general, stopping a transboy from being bullied right after her show and buying treats for her when she has to stay up all night studying and dear god, help her, she has become _hopelessly infatuated_ with a man who is far too gorgeous, mature, and charming for this to ever end any way but unhappily.

 

He loves the Miss Kitty outfits, is unbothered by her kissing strangers in the middle of the crowded club, and doesn’t seemed concerned about the fact that she and her best friend from childhood become someone else two or three nights a month.

 

Just like Nellie from school is Ionela dialed down to two, Miss Kitty is Ionela dialed up to ten – she can’t be her all the time, both of those are exhausting. The real her is really at six or seven, somewhere between those two. Nellie bores him, bores everyone, but being social is hard for her when she doesn’t really know people. Miss Kitty is nothing but a glamorous illusion she weaves over herself to be able to sing to the crowds.

 

Well, no, she didn’t weave that. Istvan put on the wildcat makeup and the ears for her and called her Miss Kitty. Istvan put on a wig and a stuffed a bra and called himself Miss Fanny so that she had the courage to walk out beside him and open her mouth. She could never have gone out without him.

 

She…really, really needs him here.

 

College was important, of course, and she hoped he was doing well in New Orleans, but this would be much easier with him to talk to. Yelena wasn’t even an adult yet and she didn’t feel like she could talk to her, not about this. She’s already spent five months allowing Jake to believe something that wasn’t true, she doesn’t feel like she can tell him now.

 

She wants her brother here with her.

 

She could talk to Aunt Natasha or Uncle Clint, but she doesn’t want them to tell Tătic and Dad about this. Not yet. Maybe not ever. If this were less likely to upset everyone, she’d talk to Uncle Tony or Uncle Thomas. She _would_ tell Aunt Daisy, but Daisy is hardly ever in town, and Fitzsimmons is not good at this kind of thing.

 

Flopping onto the leopard-print satin of her bed, she is staring at the starry mural painted over her bedroom ceiling when a sudden shock of inspiration hits her and she abruptly sits up and grabs for her phone.

 

Aunt Carol.

 

Carol will keep her secrets, Carol will listen to her without judging the utter stupidity of her actions, and she probably won’t feel the need to “chat” with Dana, the way her male relatives might.

 

“It’s been a while since we had some time to ourselves, just us girls,” Carol observes with a small, knowing smile, sitting across from her at The Black Flamingo. Ionela already feels better. Carol will know what to do about this. “What did you need to talk about, Nela?”

 

Gazing into the fern drawn carefully into the foam of her latte, Ionela says “Well, Auntie, there’s this boy…”

 

“Ah.” The gleam in Carol’s eye softens, and she rests her chin her hand, aqua blue and gold nails flashing as she devotes her attention to Ionela. “Tell Auntie all about him, my love.”

 

The words, held for months under her tongue, burst out of her mouth “He’s beautiful, Auntie, he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever met! He’s…he’s really smart, but he doesn’t act like a jackass about it, and he’s nice to homeless people and total strangers, and his _voice_ , Auntie. His voice makes me want to _die_.”

 

“My goodness,” Carol says with a fond smile, as Ionela takes a deep breath and gulps her coffee. “He sounds like Prince Charming.”

 

Ionela wrinkles her nose. “No, Prince Charming was boring.” Raking a nervous hand through her hair, she says “We’ve…I…I have been…been…um, seeing him?”

 

Carol smiles. “I assume you don’t mean you’ve suddenly developed a need for glasses and filled out a prescription,” she says with amusement. “So, do you need my help getting this boyfriend introduced to Dad and Tătic?”

 

Her stomach turns. “Um, um, no,” she mutters, looking at her fingernails. “Ah, see Auntie, he’s not…not really my boyfriend. We’ve…we’ve just sleeping together.”

 

She feels the heat suffuse her face, a fresh wave of embarrassment lapping at her insides as Carol lifts her cup away from her face. “Oh, baby…” she sighs. “Ionela, please tell me you’ve been careful and I’m not here to help you tell Steve and Bucky their teenage daughter got pregnant.”

 

“No, Auntie. I promise, we’ve both been very, very careful. I…this boy…he-he calls me pet names and he’s very…considerate, in bed. But I think he’s interested in hooking up, and I…”

 

“You’d like something more,” Carol guesses gently.

 

“Yes,” Ionela agrees glumly. “We’ve met before, but he didn’t really show an interest until after he’d seen Miss Kitty.”

 

“But he knows that you’re not Miss Kitty? Not really?”

 

“Yeah, I think so.” She chews her lip again. “I’m worried he likes Miss Kitty more than me, Auntie.”

 

“You say this boy calls you pet names? What kind of names? A generic nickname, like ‘baby’ and ‘darling’, or some sugary, like ‘cookie’ or ‘pookie’? Something specifically about you?”

 

“N-none of those,” Ionela says uncertainly. “Ah, he calls me, um… ‘my girl’ and something else, something in…Urdu, I think? Or…Punjabi? I’ve never asked what it means, but he only says it when we’re…alone.”

 

Carol’s pale brows raise to her hairline. “Your man is from the Middle East?”

 

“Sort of. His friend says he learned from the local Pakistani community. He’s from…London, I think? And…” Her voice trails off into a thin whisper when she sees Carol’s face grow darker and darker.

 

“He’s from _Cambridge_ , actually,” Carol says tightly, shocking Ionela. Her eyes flash and one fist clenches on the handle of her purse. “And I can _hardly believe_ Jacqueline allowed him to do such a thing!”

 

Lowly, Ionela pleads “Don’t get him fired, Auntie. Please. He’s never done anything I didn’t want in every sense.”

 

“That might be so,” she replies “But what he’s done is incredibly reckless and unprofessional and I can’t ignore that, Ionela. Luckily there is an upside here.” When Ionela simply stares at her, puzzled, Carol explains “I can’t have him fired, but if your father chose to…dispose of him for this, there’s very little chance anyone would even bat an eyelash. I doubt he’d risk that for a cute girl, Nela. He’s a bit like your uncle that way – he’s a smooth sonovabitch, and he could charm the skin off a snake, but his risks are calculated ones. Ha, now that I think about it, Kamala told me that once – _My Dana is just like Tom_ , _but he wears his no fucks on the outside_.”

 

“Carol…how did you and Thomas fall in love? Not the fairytale version he used to tell us, the real story.”

 

“I had a certain idea of the kind of person that your uncle was, and he had a certain idea of me,” she says dryly. “That being: Thomas thought I was the kind of person who would look really good adorning his bed, and I disagreed. He did not know I was trans, and he was…rather relentless about expressing his interest. Your dad asked me to deal with it, as he was still in training and I was technically his superior officer, but I enjoyed the attention. Enjoyed having that power over him.”

 

“One day, alone in the office, he enthusiastically offered to…shall we say…perform an act I would not have been equipped for.” Ionela blushes and covers her smile. Carol raises one well-penciled brow. “So I let him push his hands up my dress and watched the surprise on his face.”

 

Her niece looks appalled, making Carol laugh. Conversationally, she says “Do you know what I remember thinking, watching that realization come over him?” When Ionela shakes her head, Carol responds “I remember thinking… _Are you happy now, you spoiled brat? Have you gotten what you wanted_? I had every expectation that he would be disgusted with me, that he was going to prove me right, and I was filled with such an angry, spiteful glee at the thought. But I was wrong. I want you to remember that advice, my love. I’m far from pleased with what Dana’s done, and I certainly won’t be telling your fathers, but don’t set your expectations with Dana assuming that he will ruin you.”

 

“Thomas makes it sound so romantic, though,” Ionela says slowly. “The story of Morning Star and the wolf-god…”

 

Carol smiles at her wistful expression. “Oh, but it was romantic, too… Just not in such a flashy way. Tom…Tom is a romantic at heart.” Her fingers twitch, in the manner of an ex-smoker who has quit the habit, as though flicking away ashes. “He likes words, poetry. Your Tătic, he’s a romantic too, but he prefers gestures. I think Dana is one as well. You’ll have to figure out how to tease it out of him.”

 

End Part Three

 

To Be Finished in Part Four - Ionela's Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if the sex part felt rushed, but I promise, it was supposed to.


	4. Ionela's Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is hella long, I'm sorry.

November 2028

He doesn’t watch her in the way that Jack and Powers do – he’s not actively guarding her or protecting her, he just happens to spend a lot of time with her. That is the way in which it comes up.

 

Dana sees her, waiting for him near his flat, dark hair tangling in her face as the wind whips by, the long red tassels of her scarf swaying in the breeze. A passing man says something to her and Ionela checks her wrist, her watch, quickly before responds. Rather than moving on, he appears to ask her something else, and she ducks her head, much the way she would when talking to Dana, but turns away from him, shaking her head.

 

The man does not stop talking to her, and Dana begins walking faster, an uneasy feeling curling up in his stomach that crescendos as the man grabs her arm, now openly leering down at her.

 

Quicker than he would ever have predicted, Ionela grabs back at him with her other hand, with such strength her whole arm shakes, clamping her hand around the man’s forearm and digging in her fingernails with all her might.

 

People turn and stare while they walk past as the man lets out an unearthly shriek of terror and pain, now frantically trying to get away from Ionela.

 

Shoving the stranger away from her, Dana breaks the hold the two of them had on each other. “I’m gonna press charges!” the man screams, spittle flying, hysterical as he holds his arm. “That bitch just assaulted me!”

 

“Press charges then. _You_ grabbed _her_ , I watched the whole thing!” Dana snarls, without bothering to even glance at him. Let the arsehole go to the police. Staring down into her eyes, he’s chilled to realize that there doesn’t seem to be anyone looking back at him. “Ionela? Ionela? My girl, are you okay?”

 

She stands in the middle of the busy street, arms hung limp by her sides, blinking slowly without any hint of awareness about her. _Oh no_.

 

Somewhere in his rational and logical brain, he’d been aware that this could happen someday, but Dana still hadn’t been expecting it. That didn’t mean he froze – she needed him now, perhaps in a more fundamental and urgent way than sex. With a voice as sweet and soothing as lavender, Dana murmurs “Take my hand, Ionela. That’s right, my girl, everything’s alright. We’re going inside now.”

 

Her hand holding his feels somehow more intimate than all six months of fucking. With the chill of someone walking over your grave, Dana glances at her, at the trusting way she lets him lead her, her dark eyes glazed and doll-like.

 

He takes her back to his flat as quickly as possible, needing her somewhere quiet and calming in the hope that she’ll come back to herself. In spite of his unease, he can’t resist the urge to stroke her hair, humming and repeating “Everything is alright, my girl.”

 

Still blinking sluggishly, she stirs a little, breathing deeply. That cologne, something that smells of heavy flowers, like roses in a hot house and geraniums baked under the sun, but also like old world spices, cinnamon and sandalwood. Humid and consuming, it makes her think of the gardens of Babylon, ancient and beautiful and strange. Oh, she loves that smell, though it always makes her so dizzy. “ _Mézédes_ ,” she moans, parting her lips to taste it.

 

“That’s very forward, darling,” he whispers, jerking with surprise.

 

“Dana.”

 

Rumbling against her hair, Dana murmurs “Yes, love, it’s your Dana. I’m here, my girl, you’re okay.”

 

Why wouldn’t she be okay? Why…why…

 

_It’s your Dana._

 

Pulling back from Dana’s shoulder quickly, Ionela nearly trips herself getting up from the couch.

 

“What…what happened?” she asks thickly, wiping her face as a force of habit, despite not crying. At least not this time. God, she hasn’t done this in three years. At least this time there’s no fire alarm, and there was someone around to help her.

 

“A stranger tried to grab you,” Dana says carefully, watching her closely. “You convinced him that was a bad idea.”

 

Alarmed, she says “Did I break his arm?”

 

Dana wasn’t sure if he should be worried or amused that Ionela knew she would’ve used violence against him. The dude had it coming, so he decides to go with amused. He smirks. “No, you just clawed him up a bit, _sheranee_ – nothing he didn’t deserve, I promise.”

 

Rather than smiling, Ionela looks even more troubled, quietly saying “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

 

“I’m not, watching a molester shriek like a woman in a horror film made my day.”

 

“No, not that, the…” she gestures back towards him, at the couch, then at herself, feeling her inadequacy more keenly than ever.

 

Leaning toward her, he catches Ionela’s hand in his. He whispers “Nothing to be worried over, my girl. Nothing at all.”

 

Even now, they don’t acknowledge that he must’ve known this could happen. That he would’ve been prepared for this, probably by her uncle or her grandmother – they were intensely overprotective. She should leave. She should stop giving pieces of her heart away to him. But Dana looks at her and kisses her hand, and the spell is thoroughly in place again.

 

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Ionela can hear Aunt Carol telling her not to expect Dana to ruin her, just because she’s afraid. Instead, because she’s afraid, she allows him to pull her down onto his lap. Dana’s black eyes seem to pierce through her, and all the air leaves the room, her heart beating double time as his voice purrs those familiar words, stroking back her hair.

 

“What can I do for my girl?”

\---

Exiting the dressing room, Jack’s eyebrows rise to her hairline. “Okay, she is there are reason you live in a dorm room when there’s an Olympic fucking pool here?”

 

Jake, already wearing his own board shorts, floats by on a raft with a drink his hand that is an alarming shade of green.

 

“You’re early,” Ionela comments.

 

“I didn’t have to come in from Manhattan,” he says lazily.

 

 From behind her, Dana says “ _Sheranee_!” and echoes Jack’s playful, suggestive whistle from earlier.

 

Blushing furiously, Ionela leaps into the water to hide herself and hopefully keep herself from making this event non-PG in front of their friends. Nudging her as she swims up beside Ionela, Jack murmurs “I didn’t know Jake was already here.”

 

“I didn’t want you to feel like a third wheel,” Ionela whispers back.

 

Jack looks at her, surprised. “Ah, love, are you trying to set me up? No offence, but the charming Mister Oh is too young for me, and also too male.

 

Ionela shakes her head quickly. She was hoping one day her brother would come to his senses and realize Jake was the man for him. Hell, she was hoping Jake would come to his senses and realize that her brother would never gamble away their friendship by making the first move unless he got some very clear signals.

 

Ionela has no problem at all talking to Jacob Oh, giggling and smiling at him the way one did for any old friend. But it was almost like seeing another person and it burned him fiercely. He needs to do something more, quickly. While Ionela looks bewildered afterwards, he manages to secure assurances that he and Jack will be at Thanksgiving dinner with her fathers, aunts, uncles, and grandparents.

 

And Jake.

 

Bugger.

\---

Having witnessed her brutal takedown of the bastard who tried to manhandle her, Dana is under no illusion that Ionela is some helpless, fluffy child that needs him – or even Jack – to defend her.

 

However, he has yet to experience how brutal Ionela’s personality can become when her slow-simmering temper is finally brought to a full boil.

 

Dana and Ionela are riding the elevator up to his flat when the doors on the ground floor are about to close and his next door neighbor walks in. Now, he understands they do not look like a typical couple – she is wearing normal street clothes, but Dana is still wearing a loose shirt dress and combat boots and there is a giant streak of glitter through his hair. Not on purpose – one of the people in the crowd started throwing glitter paint around. Jack went home looking like a pinata threw up on her, so by comparison he is relatively unscathed.

 

But he is a tall brown man in a dress with glitter in his hair, wearing both eye shadow and five o’clock shadow, and his partner is a short, deliciously curvaceous woman from the Balkans who looks like she should be selling bibles door-to-door and Dana is very aware of this.

 

Dana is holding Ionela’s hand, lowly humming a particular tune, the melody buzzing lightly in her ear. She is already on edge, ready to go, because by now she knows that the humming means Dana has been thinking of something particularly wicked he wants to do to her. It’s the same song, every time, though she doesn’t recognize it. The sound prays upon her nerves, the silky tones of his voice crawling up her spinal cord and turning everything between her legs to hot liquid.

 

His next door neighbor – a white frat boy turned law intern – eyes the two of them the way a wolf would eye a pair of lame sheep, grinning at Ionela and laughing with barely a glance at Dana. “Let me know if you want a real man to show you a good time, sweetheart,” he says, with a shake of the head. “I guarantee you won’t get what you want from this queer.”

 

“No thank you,” Ionela responds, frowning. His small-minded squawking has interrupted the humming, which is very displeasing.

 

Dana snorts, saying with a smile and his best Cambridge School Boy impression “We didn’t ask, darling. When we need a third, you’ll be the first we call.”

 

Fat chance. He’s going half-crazy just having Jake around so much, Dana doesn’t think he could stand the idea of another partner actually in the bedroom.

 

Carefully-style-douchebag looks visibly disgusted, losing any chance of Ionela not retaliating against him. Lucia once told her that spitefulness was one of the least charming traits in a woman. “I wouldn’t fuck you if you paid me, fag.”

 

A small puff of air touches the side of her face as Dana gives a small huff of laughter, but doesn’t bother to reply. Unknown to him, Ionela is suddenly no longer afraid of appearing charming.

 

One small and chubby Balkan girl, hot and salty please!

 

He doesn’t realize what she’s doing until they are already in the bedroom and he hums to her, groaning as he pulls off her sweater and reveals the cleavage so cruelly trapped by her undergarments. Bras, in Dana’s opinion, are like gender-norms. They are oppressive constructs that should be thrown out.

 

“Fuck me, Dana.”

 

He pauses, stunned. Ionela does not swear – at least, not in English. She may swear in Romanian, but he wouldn’t be able to tell. She’s also never that direct, that loud, or that forceful. She meets his eyes and tilts her head at his closet, the wall that he shares with…

 

“Fucking bad girl,” he growls, chasing her up the bed as she crawls backward. “My bloody brilliant, bloody savage _sheranee_.”

 

It’s cute, really. Shitty Neighbor would barely register on Dana’s annoyance level – he’s heard worse, and he probably will hear worse again. It’s the price he pays for living the way he pleases. That Ionela was so offended on his behalf she’s willing to give the arsehole an all-night example of his incorrect assumption is honestly kind of adorable?

 

And she sighs, loud and unrestrained, “Dana…” her hands gripping Dana’s upper arms, then yelps it louder when he uses a startling burst of unexpected strength to lift her atop the broad headboard “Dana!”

 

Even knowing what he is, Ionela doesn’t expect to be manhandled so casually and she…well, she doesn’t hate it. There is no resistance from her body as he enters her, one smooth motion that makes her cry “Oh my god, yes!”

 

“He’s going to jerk off to this, you know,” Dana informs her in dark undertones, low enough so that if Shitty Neighbor is trying to listen in, he won’t hear him. “He could call the super, but instead, he’s gonna have a wank and listen to you.”

 

Shocked, she whispers “No…”

 

“It’s what I would do,” he confesses, resting his forehead on her freckled shoulder. “I’d hate the bastard who was fucking you, but I’d want you, and I’d imagine it were me.”

 

It’s as close as he’s coming to admit his jealousy. Ionela strokes his hair, holding his head. “It is you, Dana.”

\---

While she is trying very hard not to begin hyperventilating, Carol can see that it’s very much a possibility. “Oh, honey, I know.”

 

“I don’t,” Ionela gasps, terrified and anxious. “That’s the problem – it just…he’s a _witch_ , Auntie. One minute we’re in the pool and Jack is taking about her deadline, and the next, they’re coming to Thanksgiving dinner!”

 

“Well, now, this is a good thing,” Carol says calmly, trying not to laugh at the look of utter disbelief her niece throws her way. “If he’s willing to do something big like a holiday dinner, clearly he isn’t just there for the sex. You couldn’t possibly be safer anywhere than here, so he won’t be using your security as an excuse.”

 

“He is going to be at my _house_ ,” Ionela says, horrified. “With my _fathers_. _Together_. _Tomorrow_.”

 

“Oh my love, everything is going to be fine. Dana is very charming, he won’t embarrass you!”

 

“ _I’m_ going to embarrass me!” she splutters. “I turn into an idiot when he walks into the room.”

 

Oh dear lord. The only thing worse would be Istvan there, too – that would just be a clusterfuck, even if she’d rather have the shit hitting the fan then spending another holiday with her twin in Louisiana.

 

Come to think of it, she was beginning to feel something was wrong with Istvan. He was always tired, of course, he worked two jobs and if Dad was right, still kept a 4.0. But when they video-chatted last week, he looked more than tired. He looked kinda… _sick_. Just sort of exhausted and gray.

 

Her brother was a serious, somber person as far as she could recall, he always had been, but he was usually healthy as a horse, a fact which unfortunately enabled him to work himself half to death whenever he pleased. This is the first time she can ever remember it effecting his health, though.

 

Underneath it all was the nagging feeling that Istvan was _hiding_ something from her.

 

 _Then again_ , she thinks wryly, _I guess that’s fair, since I’ve spent months hiding Dana._

 

She wakes up on Thanksgiving morning at five a.m. because she’s too anxious to sleep. Tătic is already awake…sort of. Laying half asleep on the living room sofa while the coffee machine gurgle to life behind him, Morgan perched like a statue on the back of the couch. Leaning down over the back, she curls her arms around Tătic, cheek resting on his head.

 

“G’morning, puişor,” he mumbles, barely coherent.

 

Laughing softly, she takes pity on poor Tătic and pads back to the kitchen, pouring them a cup and snuggling up next to him.

 

“You’re my favorite daughter,” Tătic murmurs, slinging an arm around her as he slurps from the mug.

 

“Don’t drink it all,” she protests, despite her giggling. “Share!”

 

“What are you doing up this early?” he asks, kissing her cheek and petting her hair. The small amount of babying Istvan allowed as a child all but disappeared by the time the twins turned sixteen, but Ionela still let him coddle her a bit, bless her.

 

She gives a noncommittal hum. “Couldn’t sleep,” she sighs, laying her head on his shoulder. She yawns and sniffs. “Had to pee.”

 

With another kiss, he squeezes her close. “Come keep old Tătic company.”

 

They watch some old black and white – something about a falcon, the male lead makes her want to hit something. They traded the coffee back and forth, still half asleep, drifting off for minutes at a time, until Ionela blinks her eyes open to see that another movie has begun and from the sounds in the kitchen, Dad is now awake, too.

 

Gently lifting herself from the couch, she goes to the kitchen where Dad is quietly talking to Morgan as he drinks his coffee. “-and we’ll just have to get him back home, won’t we, Cat Morgan?”

 

Refilling her cup, Ionela yawns “Morning, Dad.”

 

Dad turns and smiles at her, giving Morgan a loving ear scratch. “Morning, baby. Did you sleep well?”

 

“Eh,” she says honestly, knowing that outright lying to Dad is no good. He can sniff it a mile off.

 

Dad chuckles and gives her a hug. While it never seemed odd growing up, as an adult, she is occasionally stricken by the oddness of hugging Dad. Their fathers couldn’t have known when they adopted their children that Istvan would grow up to be almost as tall as Tătic but only two-thirds his size, and Ionela would be Dad’s height, but outweigh him by nearly fifty pounds.

 

She smiles faintly, sadly, recalling that Tătic used to put her on Dad’s lap whenever she had a nightmare. Well, Tătic can still pick her up if he really wants to, but Dad can’t hold her in the rocking chair anymore.

 

It’s very unsettling, sometimes, to be an adult.

 

The day actually goes much better than expected – the number of people there (for her family anyway) is relatively small, just the closest of the ‘in town’ family, since Uncle Sam is visiting Uncle Riley’s family in Missouri, and Aunt Peggy and Aunt Angie have taken a holiday to Barcelona. Still, her grandparents are there. Uncle Clint, Aunt Natasha, and Yelena. Aunt Carol and Uncle Thomas. Jake, of course.

 

And now Jack and Dana.

 

Aunt Carol, after studying Dana, gives Ionela a smirk and a discreet thumbs-up.

 

Though of course, there’s the whole…weird family introduction to go through. “So, the cute blonde with my fellow countryman is your…dad’s sister?” Dana says slowly. “Is the _other_ cute blonde his other sister, then?”

 

“No, that’s Bunică,” Ionela says, with a little sigh. It never gets less weird. “My _grandmother_.”

 

Also she was a little worried about him thinking Bunică and Carol were cute – they were, but her grandmother and her aunt were blonde, thin, and badass. In other words, everything that Ionela was definitely not. Thank god they were married. No, thank god they would never leave Bunic and Uncle Thomas.

 

Okay, she was definitely a crazy person.

 

“Oh my god,” Jack whispers to him, sounding star-struck. “It’s _Dagger_. Dana, that’s Cloak and Dagger. It’s…it’s the original Ms. Marvel. Dana. _Dana_.”

 

“I know, shut up, she’ll hear you,” he whispers back. “And then she’ll cut my head off when she figures out what I’ve done to her niece.”

 

Jack snorts. “You’ve bent her over a couple counters, you didn’t summon Satan or eat the last hobnob in the cupboard, you twat.”

 

Sweating, he hisses “Say that a bit louder so that both her parents can hear you – are you _trying_ to have my body dumped into a river, Jacqueline?”  

 

“Calm down, you effing drama queen or you’ll piss yourself before they even serve dessert.” Jack has decided not to mention that Dana seems to have drastically calmed down his usual wardrobe. He’s still wearing eyeliner and his silk shirt is a colorful pattern of pink paisley, but he has no lipsticks or eye shadow and no jewelry today. While he’s wearing black leather pants, they are not indecently tight, and his footwear is black steel-toed boots instead of heels.

 

Dana is adamant that he will not fully conform to other people’s ideals of ‘propriety’, not even for Ionela, but for him this is quite tame. He’s managed to keep his cool so far and didn’t even drool on himself when Ionela greeted them at the door wearing a lovely off the shoulder sweater dress in a shade of cranberry red and matching lipstick.

 

If Ionela blushes and looks a bit like a deer in the headlights as Dana greets her with a kiss to the corner of her mouth, Jack elects not to mention that – Dana feels insecure enough as it is, especially since they’ve been seeing more and more of Jake lately. In a way, it’s encouraging – Jacob Oh is Ionela’s closest friend, from what they’ve seen, her and Istvan’s only friend outside their massive family group. Hanging out with him feels important, significant.

 

But the more they see him, the more Dana can also see the yawning gap between the way she behaves around him and the way she behaves around people she clearly knows and loves. He isn’t just having a paranoid feeling that she holds him at arm’s length anymore – now he can watch it happening.

 

In spite of everything, Dana feels pretty pleased with how well it goes.

 

The meal itself is delicious and he and Jack thank their hosts profusely, but watching the way Ionela interacts with her family is even more interesting.

 

First of all, Ionela is not only the apple of her fathers’ eyes – she’s also the life of the fucking party, at least for these people.

 

Though she is under legal drinking age, Clint pours Ionela a decently sized glass of some kind of sweet liquor Dana’s never heard of, reddish-black frozen cherries floating within it and gives it over with a grin and a wink. Drink in hand, she plays some kind of card game with Jacob and Thomas that takes such a long time, he and Jack go over to investigate. “Oh, are you lot playing _Slippery Bitch_?”

 

Ionela squints at Tom suspiciously “I thought you said we’re playing _Black Maria_?”

 

“It’s the same game, darling. The Americans would call it _Hearts_ ,” he says idly, frowning at his hand.

 

Staring at his own cards, Jake groans “God, why did I agree to play cards with you? I should know better by now!”

 

“Masochism,” Ionela says sweetly, with a sly smile that leads them to realize Jake was taking _to her_ , not Tom.

 

“Why shouldn’t you play with Ionela?”

 

Tom and Jake stare at Dana. “This is Princess Peach. Queen of Players. Mistress of Monopoly. Master of the Game,” Jake says mournfully, staring at his available hand in total despair. “We have no chance.”

 

“I don’t win every game,” she says amiably, the almost predatory grin even more alluring then the tightest of her catsuits. Behind her chair, Dana shifts uncomfortably and Jack shoots him A Look. “I’m still only ahead by ten points – you could pull ahead.”

 

“No,” Tom says, chuckling. “You win _nearly_ every game and usually find a way to make your poor brother lose miserably on top of that.”

 

“It’s my job to keep his ego from overinflating,” she replies and Jake snorts. She bats her long dark eyelashes, amber cat’s eyes glowing in beneath the low-lit lamp above the table. “Don’t be sad, Jake – at least you weren’t dumb enough to play for money. Uncle Clint and Uncle Hunter let me sucker them every time.”

 

“Thank god for that.”

 

Yelena passes by their table and double takes before giving a loud snort of laughter. “Don’t you ever learn?”

 

“We could try cribbage,” she suggests, and Dana is surprised when Tom and Jake immediately both say a loud “ _NO_.”

 

“Are you pretty good?” Jack asks, grinning at their agony.

 

“It’s not just that she’s good,” Jake complains.

 

“Cribbage is a two-person game,” Tandy says, amused as she looks down into Tom’s hand over his shoulder and whistles. “They try to bring in as many players as they can so they can spread the humiliation around rather than letting Nela torment just one person for the whole game.”

 

 _This is Ionela_ , Dana thinks.

 

The mouse who stutters around campus and can’t meet his gaze isn’t it, and the sex-kitten who prowls and purrs her way around the stage, kissing strangers because she can isn’t it, either.

 

The clever, grinning girl with lips painted to a deep tempting red, her hair curling around her bare shoulders and freckles on her nose, is Ionela. That girl who was so petty and spiteful, she spent over an hour screaming his name, just because Dana’s neighbor was mean to him. This is the girl he wants, and the girl needs to know. He just has to find a way to win her. Somehow.

 

There isn’t anything on television apart from the parade and continued news coverage about the infiltration of a SHIELD prison – the reason, Natasha tells Ionela in undertones, that Team Theta is not there with them this year, as they’ve been called to Texas to respond to it. They eat dessert in the living room, watching “Miracle on 34th Street”, and Dana spends a very pleasant two hours cuddled up next to Ionela on the floor against a small mountain of pillows.

 

Despite sitting on the floor, they both fall asleep, a piece of mostly-finished pumpkin pie balanced on Ionela’s knee. Morgan is draped over her legs and Jenny has charmed her way onto Dana’s lap – not that he took much convincing. Jack wanders away and Natasha ends up asking her about working for the Starks. Tom and Bucky, regretting every food decision they’ve made today, take over her spot when she leaves, and Tyrone gets up for another slice of pecan pie.

 

Tom rests his elbows on his knees and twitches a hand in their direction, mouthing “What do you think?” to Bucky.

 

Bucky leans back, eyes drawn to his daughter. She’s leaning into Dana’s side, his nose buried in her hair, stroking the silk fabric of his shirt in her sleep. Quietly, he says “He’s a nice kid.” Since Tom looks almost smug, he asks “Why, was this your handy engineering?”

 

“An accident,” he says innocently. “But I selected them.”

 

“Matchmaking by _ghost_ ,” Bucky says, with a faint smile.

 

“Better than the way the two of you did it,” Tom says in disgust. “I knew Steven was a human disaster, imagine my horror when I found out there were two. Circumstances aside, this is shaping up to be a nice, simple meet-cute.”

 

 _Oh no_ , Carol thinks fondly. _Human disaster is a time-honored family trait. We couldn’t break with tradition_.

 

They are both still sleeping when Billie leaves with her parents and when the Bartons go back to Bed-Stuy. Dad is coaxing Jake off the couch and into the guest room when Ionela finally stirs to life and struggles off the nest of pillows.

 

“Wakey-Jakey,” Dad murmurs, dragging him up by the arm. Because Clint had been overly free with the _vișinată_ , Jake is still swaying a bit as Dad pulls him off the sofa. “Aw kid,” Dad says, uncharacteristically sympathetic. “C’mon, Jake, we ain’t sending you back to Ann-Marie like this. Let’s get you some aspirin and water, and you can sleep it off in Fane’s room.”

 

Blurry eyed, Jake mutters “Fucking Fanny and his fucking ideas.”  

 

Jack watches Ionela pull a peculiar-looking deck of cards out of a side drawer in the living room and shuffle them slowly. Thomas pours four glasses of lemon seltzer and Bucky lights a set of four curiously slender, red-brown cigarettes that fill the room with the smell of baked Christmas cookies. “Would you like one?”

 

“What is it?”

 

Her brows raise as she watches Ionela casually put the stick between her lips, forehead pinched as she begins quickly dealing out seven cards to each person. Carol, noticeably, does not join them. “It’s okay, it’s just cloves,” she says, glancing at Jack. “There isn’t any tobacco or additives in it – just clove.”

 

“Would you like to play?” Bucky asks her, with a kind smile.

 

“Don’t,” Steve says in a warning voice. “Don’t do it – they make the rules more complicated every time they play.”

 

Now Jack is even more intrigued. “What’s the game?”

 

“Solstice,” Ionela says, letting a soft cloud of smoke ring around her. It smells like a bakery. “Tătic and Uncle Clint made it up.”

 

“Basically, the object of the game is to build a series of specific cards,” Tom explains, tilting his chair back so that if he falls, he will break his neck. “You want to build the best set you can, or at least try not to be the worst in the round, but the kids found it entertaining to see how convoluted they could make the rules. Which reminds me – is this Winter Solstice or Summer Solstice?”

 

“Summer,” says Bucky, though Ionela says “Winter.”

 

“No,” he says, “You’re here and your brother isn’t – it’s Summer Solstice.”

 

“I know, Tătic, but it’s November. We play Winter.”

 

“No, that means it’s Summer,” Carol says suddenly. “Remember, we decided you don’t start Winter until the actual Winter Solstice. And then on Midsummer’s Eve, you switch back to Summer.”

 

“I deeply regret making that deck for you,” Steve tells his husband.

 

“I love you, too, _zvezdochka_.”

 

This seems to be an entirely illogical conversation until they begin playing and Carol, seated off to the side with her as the players smoke their cloves and begin building their hands, explains the game to her.

 

The deck is a handmade set of cards similar to a tarot deck, except the suits are Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall rather than wands, swords, cups, and disks, and the cards in the major arcana have very different names than she’s used to – Morning Star, God of Wolves, Goddess of the Sun. The character therein bear a striking resemblance to many of the people she’s met today. And some of the basic rules change depending on whether they play in winter or summer. In Summer Solstice, series made with the summer suit are worth more, and vice versa. The combinations are nearly endless, but in Summer, you can’t use the same card twice which makes things easier.

 

“Of course, the most important rule is to never place-”

 

“God damn it,” Thomas sighs.

 

“Midsummer and Midwinter in the same hand,” Carol finishes, giving her husband a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

 

Tom throws his hand on the table, muttering “Stardust.”

 

“That’s Nellie!” Jack says, staring down at the Midsummer card, a pretty young woman in an orange-scarlet ombre dress glancing over her shoulders, wild flowers clutched in her hand. The other card, the dark young man looking thoughtful, must be her brother Istvan, ‘Midwinter’.

 

“Having Midwinter and Midsummer in your hand at the same time means that you’ve got ‘Stardust’ and have to lay your cards down immediately. Since Tom’s got crap in his hand, that means he’s basically tanked round one.”

 

His other cards are a Jack of Autumn, the nine, one, and two of Summer, and Morning Star. Morning Star bears an uncanny resemblance to Carol, the Autumn cards seem to be associated with Clint, and the Summer cards with a dark-haired Asian woman Jack’s never seen before.

 

“It’s early yet,” Bucky tells Jack. “In Summer rules, we go for 500, so there’s plenty of time.”

 

It takes Jack an hour of watching before she feels comfortable with joining. Tom was right – they’ve deliberately made the rules dizzyingly confusing, including passing six cards to the right if the round lasts longer than ten minutes, and a provision that basically bans you from using God of Wolves – Tom – with any card but Morning Star or an ace card from any suit.

 

It’s enormously fun, and they are up insanely late. They have to explain everything to Dana all over again when he joins them at midnight.

 

And he gets to watch her all night, hazy and relaxed, grinning at her uncle’s increasing frustration, flushed and warm from the cherry brandy and the cigarettes, watching her painted mouth as she laughs. It feels likes torture. It feels like a gift.

 

They are invited back for Christmas.

 

December 2028

Dana hums to her, a deep quiet thrumming in her ear that currently just gives Ionela a warm feeling low in her belly. She doesn’t have to use the bathroom anymore and despite being naked, she’s very comfortable right where she is. She dozes, eyes closed, his thumb rubbing over her side, when she hears him murmur with the melody “In starlit nights I saw you, so cruelly you kissed me – your lips a magic world, your sky all hung with jewels…”

 

“That’s beautiful,” she whispers, and he pauses. “Where is from?”

 

“The Killing Moon,” he whispers back, trying not to sound surprised. “My da had this load of old punk music when I was a kid.”

 

“Are you…were you close with him?” Ionela knows a lot of orphans – herself among them, despite gaining parents later. She won’t presume that his are still with him.

 

“No, I wasn’t,” Dana says quietly. Hesitates a moment before adding “I ran away. They wanted different things than I did, and eventually realized that I couldn’t make them understand my point of view. As a dumb university student, I ran away to London and I’ve not seen him or my mum since. His music was about the only cool thing about him.”

 

“I’m sorry.” She can’t imagine not speaking to your parents, abandoning them to never be seen or heard from again. Adriana was poor, uneducated, and ostracized, but she was an excellent mother by all accounts and recollections. Dad and Tătic would be devastated if she disappeared without a trace. “Do you miss them?”

 

“I’m not. I miss having parents, having family more than I miss them, specifically.” After a moment, he says thoughtfully, “You know, I think part of him was a bit envious, that I did the things he couldn’t do. That I had the will to walk away when he didn’t. Took up music, was in a band for awhile. They were…they wanted me to get married. They called me just before summer hols started and had this girl from Kashmir they told me I was engaged to.”

 

“ _Engaged_ to?” Ionela repeats, aghast.

 

“Right?! Yeah, I was…overwhelmed is a nice word. I had three panic attacks that night and by the time the sun came up, I knew I had to get away. They weren’t happy with the way I dressed, that I sometimes went out with boys. Kept telling me it was a phase I’d get out of. I was in the law program, but I was flunking out, which I hadn’t told them. Now I was suddenly expected to get married to this girl I’d never met, and if there wasn’t a child within the first year or two, I knew they’d start asking me aggressive questions.”

 

“You don’t want kids?” she suddenly asks, neither curious nor upset – as though she too is startled by the question.

 

“Maybe, someday,” he sighs. “But I knew I didn’t want to have them like that. I pawned a very nice watch my grandmother gave me and got the first bus to London. I’ve never looked back.”

 

She’s silent for a long time – so long that he begins to regret getting so personal. He’s never mentioned anything about his past before, beyond that he was from Cambridge and no, he was not from India, his grandparents were from Pakistan. Then she brushes her hand lightly across his chest, gently ruffling the curls of hair. “My mother died when my brother and I were four years old,” which she’s certain he already knows. “When I was seven, my aunt, my mother’s sister took us in. But before that, we were living with a distant cousin, and his wife.”

 

There is another pause, before Ionela seems to gather herself. “She…she would…hit us, sometimes, especially Istvan. He tried to protect me a lot, and for some reason, no one noticed as much when she’d hurt him. When she-when she was really annoyed, she’d put out her cigarette on the back of his shirt, and burn him.”

 

Dana breathes “Jesus” and stills her hand against his heart, throbbing painfully for her in chest.

 

“But she found other way to torture me. She’d call me…” Since Ionela couldn’t bring herself to repeat that, she pivots to “She called me names, and would have me do a chore, just to make sure I had to do it over again.”

 

“I’m sorry.” It feels strange, it feels good the way Dana holds her against him. “I’m sorry you had to live through that. Why didn’t your cousin stop her?”

 

“He didn’t know. She’d never act that way directly in front of him, but we were with her almost all the time. He knew something was wrong because I would start crying and having a tantrum every time he went somewhere, but it wasn’t until she gave Istvan a black eye that he finally sent us to my aunt.”

 

“Suddenly I like my parents a whole lot more,” he mutters.

 

“They were never my parents,” Ionela says, maybe more sharply than she intended. “They were the people who took care of me. Who took care of _us_.”

 

“But Steve and Bucky are?”

 

She stills. “Yes…they were the only people since my mother died to want us merely because we were…ourselves. They treated me as though the simple fact of my existence was enough for them.”

 

Dana tilts her head up to meet his gaze. “Not the only people.”

 

Because she’s feeling raw and cynical she says with a light laugh, “I think you want me for a little more than my existence.”

 

Because he is also feeling raw and suddenly emotionally starving, he says without cracking a smile, “I want you for more, but if you merely existed, Ionela, it would be enough.”

 

She’s not ready to hear this right now, but her heart wants it more than she cares to admit. She flounders, uncertain of their footing. “I don’t know how to respond to that,” she whispers, playing with the ends of his hair. “I’m not that interesting. But I like to think I’m a good friend.”

 

“You are. And you are.” It’s true – she tries to include Jack, despite being almost a decade her junior and tries to keep Jacob distracted from whatever is making him so snarky and miserable. “But I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

 

“You didn’t, you…make me feel a lot of things, Dana. Uncomfortable isn’t one of them.” She can’t manage to be any more courageous than that at this point.

 

He strokes along her cheek with a gentle finger. “That’s odd because this might be the first time you’ve really talked to me. Apart from screaming my name, of course.” She looks startled again, and he plows on. “I feel like you’re uncomfortable around me a lot.”

 

“You’re gorgeous!” she blurts out. “And I can barely manage to remember my own dumb name when you’re around! I have no social skills, and you’re my bodyguard.”

 

The dumbfound look on his face is nearly amusing. “Oh, my girl. I’m afraid your beautiful cleavage has seduced me into forgetting to tell you something very important.”

 

“What it that?”

 

“I’m not your bodyguard, _sheranee_. I removed myself from the official documents.”

 

“I…wha-when?” she finally decides.

 

“The day we met. Immediately after I bumped into you, I told your uncle I couldn’t be trusted with you when I knew I was going to ask you out.”

 

The grand finale of her next show is ‘The Killing Moon’, swaying her hips seductively as Dana stares at her, awestruck in the front of the crowd. Carol was right – she just had find the right way, the right language to speak with him.

\---

The mythical Istvan comes back for Christmas and when Dana discovers they are having dinner with him, Jack immediately bails out on him. “Nope, you’ve got the girl, I’m out.”

 

“But-”

 

“ _Dana_ , it’s Christmas Eve, and your having dinner with her immediate family. Get a bloody clue, boy!”

 

“Oh. Yes, point taken.”

 

He isn’t sure what he’s expecting, but he’s also sure this isn’t going great. Why her fathers have no problem with him and Istvan isn’t thrilled, he doesn’t know. Narrow, tall, and darkly handsome in a way that’s made vaguely forgettable by the way he dresses, Istvan examines Dana with the air of being an entomologist looking at a particularly interesting beetle pinned to a cork board, his dark shining eyes like hollow obsidian chips, none of Ionela’s warmth or sly charm. Still, Dana tries his best. “Ionela tells me that you’re going to Tulane,” he says politely. “What do you study, Fane?”

 

“Steven,” he corrects, his accent hissing the ‘s’ and ‘v’ consonants in an oddly deliberate way. He chews every bite of salad looking Dana straight in the eye, as though picturing every leaf of lettuce were Dana’s skin. With an almost challenging tone, he says “Political science.”

 

Jesus, this child is scary. How the hell did such a terrifying creature come from such a nice family? No, there’s something off about this entire situation. Steve is eating with a studied, careful sort of calmness to him, but Bucky keeps glancing between the twins with obvious concern. Either there’s been some kind of argument he isn’t aware of, or this is not normal behavior.

 

“You want to be a politician?”

 

He tilts his head, giving Dana a clinical smile. “Not exactly.”

 

Fucking _terrifying_.

 

In his pants pocket, his phone vibrates, the do not disturb disregarded for the call of his boss. “Sorry, I have to check this. Back in a jiff.”

 

He has to read the message five times before it sinks in, and it still takes the elevator in the foyer dinging for him to be taken out of his reverie. Tom and Carol exit, both giving him a hard stare.

 

“Don’t make me do this,” he pleads. “Not now, when I’ve just got her. You don’t know-”

 

“I promise you can’t be more disappointed than we are right now. You don’t have a choice,” Thomas tells him quietly, with real regret.

 

“And neither do we,” Carol says. Her whole self makes Dana want to cower. She’s bone white with rage and walks straight to the dining room like an avenging angel, Thomas close behind. He follows reluctantly.

 

Steve smiles at her, an expression which immediately falls off his face at Carol’s obvious displeasure. “Carol Ann…”

 

“I’m very sorry, Steve,” she says sincerely, without losing any of her anger, staring directly at the twins. “Which one of you did it? This wasn’t an accident, you obviously planned to do it, you might as well get the credit.”

 

Slowly, Bucky says “Carol, what are you talking about?”

 

Thomas replies, quiet as the grave “We aren't certain which, but one of your children has killed someone, James.”

 

Ionela stares at her twin in horror. “What have you done?”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So about that ending...


	5. distance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This probably won't be starting where you want or expect it to, but I have a process here, okay?

December 2028

Disheveled and tired-looking, a young man steps down from a train platform in Manhattan. He is now remembering why he hasn’t been back to Brooklyn since he graduated high school. Since he and Ionela were airlifted from Cozima, he’s never liked air travel and the Amtrak trip from New Orleans to New York City is over a day long. He couldn’t very well refuse to go – Dad and Tătic already bought the ticket and he feels guilty enough about not seeing them in over a year.

 

New Orleans and Brooklyn are a long way apart if you go to college, work two jobs, live in a dorm, and eat ramen for 80% of your meals. He hadn’t wanted to ask Dad and Tătic for money – he did fine on his own. He managed well. He was tired a lot of the time, but that was college, wasn’t it?

 

They fussed too much, anyway – wanted to pick him up at the train station and everything, but it was the middle of winter and he knew Dad didn’t do well in the cold and Tătic hated crowds, so he managed to hold them off.

 

“Pops, Tătic,” he calls as he exits the elevator, hauling his luggage behind him with one hand and putting his keys back in his coat pocket with the other. “I’m home.”            

 

The house still smells like home, like Tătic’s piney aftershave and the lemons Dad squeezes into the tea they drink at bedtime. Like oil paint and coffee.

 

He’s brought up short by the woman sitting on their couch and nursing a baby. Istvan blinks. “Hey, Auntie.”

 

Billie looks up at him and smiles sleepily, looking happy and exhausted as she feeds her newborn. Warmly, she says “Hey there, good looking. How’s the Big Easy?”

 

“Surprisingly difficult,” he admits and leans down to give her a kiss, gently running a finger over the baby’s head. Quietly, he whispers “Hello, _puişor_. God, he’s even smaller in person. Where’s Dad and Tătic?”

 

Billie lets him get settled on the couch next to her before lifting McKinley up and setting in him Istvan’s arms. Originally, he was super confused about why she picked such a white fucking name before Billie smartly informed him that ‘McKinley’ was Muddy Waters’ real first name. She said she was named after a black artist in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and now her son is, too.

 

Getting more comfortable, Billie adjusts her shirt and removes her nursing blanket and says, “Bucky is at the restaurant, of course, it’s the last day before Red Star closes for the week, and Steve is getting his bi-annual ‘yay you’re not dead yet!’ from the doctor. They didn’t want you to come home to find nobody here and I was staying in the guestroom anyway. Your sister won’t be home until kind of late tonight.”

 

Now nineteen, Istvan is aware that Dad, Aunt Carol, Uncle Thomas, Bunic, and Bunică were all in a secret organization they don’t talk about and refuse to give a name to. Bunic and Bunică left this group after Dad and Aunt Carol graduated high school, when Billie was only a toddler and long before Eva was born.

 

As Istvan absently rocks McKinley, patting him on the bottom, Billie looks more and more alert – and more scrutinizing. “How are you? Really? We don’t see or hear a lot from you and now you turn up a week before Christmas, looking starved, exhausted, and half-dead.”

 

He has a theory that Aunt Billie absorbed some weird super-secret agent powers in the cradle while living in the house with four agents of the James Bond society.

 

“You’re not exactly looking fresh and well-rest yourself, these days,” he says lightly, rocking the baby with a more practiced manner than any nineteen year old boy should possess.

 

“I just spent nine months literally creating a person and then shoved a fully-formed human being out my vagina a week ago, and I’ve been feeding that person every two to four hours regardless of what time of day it is,” Billie says dryly. “So, what are you doing to make yourself look like a coke addict that’s suddenly out of blow?”

 

“I work a lot,” he says, without meeting her eyes.

 

Billie takes McKinley back before gently saying “Okay. Now would you like to tell me what’s actually wrong?”

 

“I’m just really tired,” Istvan says, leaning back into the cushions and giving her a worn-out smile.

 

She gives him one of her own. “Go in to your room and have a little lie-down then,” she says, kissing the side of his head. “Dad’s coming over in a little while, he’ll make Grandma’s fried chicken and gravy. Get some rest, buddy. Your dads won’t ever let you go back to school if they see you looking this way.”

 

Feeling a lump building in the back of his throat, Istvan nods. “Yeah, maybe they’ll have turned it into a personal gym or movie theater or something.”

 

“Turned what?”

 

“My room,” he says cracking a grin.

 

She gives him an odd look. “Why would they do that?”

 

The lump in his throat gets bigger. “Who knows?”

 

Not only haven’t they changed his room, it’s exactly the way he left it three semesters ago – except that instead of being covered with dust and stray bits of cat hair, the carpet looks freshly vacuumed, the smell of orange oil wood polish lingers around his dresser and nightstand. Rather than being left bare his bed is made with sheets that still smell like the laundry soap Tătic uses.

 

Fresh towels sit on his dresser and Cat Morgan is snoozing in the middle of his bed.

 

The wave of homesickness, which he’s been forcing down for sixteen months with overwork and extraordinarily shitty coffee, and has become more overwhelming with each moment since he entered the house, suddenly comes rushing back to him, dragging on him.

 

Drained of all energy and feeling every hour of his thirty-hour train ride now, Istvan sinks backwards on the bed, curling one arm around Morgan, who wakes up enough to stare at him and give Istvan his hoarse, sick-sounding yell of a meow. “Yeah, Morgan, me too.”

 

Morgan nudges his hand, flopping back against his arm before giving another hoarse meow of welcome, batting him with his prosthetic limb as a reminder that any trespasser must pay a petting tax.

 

Istvan remembers scratching Morgan behind the ears, but then finds himself blinking awake, the light outside his window having completely faded.

 

His stomach is shrieking angrily at him and the smell of Bunic’s fried chicken fills the whole house.

 

Bunică, elegant as always in her cream-colored sweater and long gray slacks, spots him first. “There’s my boy!” she says, wrapping him in her arms and going on her toes slightly to kiss his cheek. Rubbing his arms, she gazes up into his face and says “I’ve missed seeing you every week. Seems like only yesterday you were the quiet little boy who ate every snickerdoodle I put in front of him.”

 

“I still will, if you have any,” he says, giving her brief squeeze.

 

Tandy’s eyes twinkle. With a gentle pinch to his thin cheek, she says, “What kind of grandmother would I be if I didn’t bring you any cookies?”

 

“I’d still love you,” he says honestly. “You don’t have to, Bunică.”

 

She melts. “Aw, you’re a sweetheart. You must get it from your mother, Fane. God knows these assholes didn’t give it to you.”

 

“Classy, Mom,” Dad tells her with a sigh. “Come here and let me see you. Tătic and I want a hug.”

 

Istvan lets himself swallow nervously, but only _before_ he turns around to face Dad. He quickly learned years ago that when it comes to changes in mood and emotion, Dad is like a bloodhound. “Hey, Pops.”

 

Leaning in to embrace him, the lump in his throat returns. It never occurred to him before this, because he saw him every day, hugged him every night before bed. After months apart from him, it hits Istvan how small and fragile Dad feels in his arms. How odd it is that his bones feel delicate, but his arms are firm and strong around him. That all of this is familiar and comforting.

 

“It’s nice to finally have you home again, pet,” Dad whispers to him.

 

Swallowing again, Istvan holds him a little closer, for maybe a little longer than expected, and whispers back “It’s nice to be home, Dad.”

 

Tătic doesn’t greet him, merely lets him turn directly into his embrace, kissing his temple fiercely. This is how they’ve always hugged them, Dad impatient to hold them, and Tătic enfolding he and Ionela like a great blanket of muscle. He has to blink rapidly before he feels like he can look at Tătic without giving anything away.

 

Dinner is a symphonic chaos of talking, plates piled high with fried chicken – he swears that Bunic adds more each time his head is turned – laughter, each of them cooing to McKinley, and enough gravy to drown himself in. By the window, the Christmas tree is decorated and all lit up, presents piled everywhere beneath it, Jenny occasionally hopping across them to sniff with delirious pleasure at the branches. It’s a bit of a chaotic mess, but it’s his chaotic mess.

 

Bunică is having a conversation with Dad that catches his attention. “-and of course, Fane will finally get to meet Dana!”

 

He blinks, glancing around the table, who don’t seem as confused by this statement as he is. “Dana? Whose Dana?”

 

The fact that the rest of his family falls totally silent should really, definitely worry him. Dad continues to mop up his gravy and says “Dana is your sister’s boyfriend. We’re having dinner with them on Christmas Eve.”

 

“Uh…okay.” Istvan feels a sudden and vast feeling of distance in the deepest parts of himself, a feeling he’s been trying to shake since the day he left home, and in the past few months in particular. “What’s he like?”

 

“Colorful,” Tătic says with a smile and Dad chuckles. “Dana works with your Aunt Carol and Uncle Thomas, at SI.”

 

Istvan immediately looks less puzzled and more displeased. That means he’s in the James Bond society – he has to be. If he were just a regular employee, Dad would simply have said he works for Uncle Tony. Moreover, Carol and Tom work for two completely different departments. “Ah.”

 

His fathers both glance at him, easily reading his suspicious displeasure in that one word – not even a word, a mere sound. He also knows that they won’t press him about it more, not in front of Bunic and Bunică. After dinner, they say goodbye to Bunic and Bunică, who take Billie and McKinley with them.

 

To his further surprise, neither of them ask about his reaction even after they’ve left. He and Tătic play Durak at the breakfast bar while Dad sketches them – the twins used to think that was odd, but it’s sort of Dad’s idle animation, a self-soothing exercise his brain seems to do on autopilot. Tătic goes to bed not long after that so he and Dad curl up on the sofa and watch the news.

 

The vast empty distance feels smaller and more manageable like this, and Istvan stretches out a little and rests his head on Dad’s lap. He can feel Dad’s surprise, his thin fingers brushing at Istvan’s hair, always a little shaggy even just a month away from the barber. “Are you feeling okay, baby?”

 

 _No. No, I never feel okay. I don’t know how to feel okay_. The weight of all the things he could say, should say, wants to say, and can’t put into words, makes Istvan fall silent. He doesn’t know where to start or where to end. Instead, he says thickly “Just really tired, Pops.”

 

There is a pause, and Istvan’s heart pounds hard, each accusatory beat saying “ _He knows, he knows, he knows_ ” but Dad bends to kiss the top of his head, and the only thing he says is “You’re home, baby” as if that is the answer to all his problems.

 

In a way…it is.

\---

Though he feels slightly guilty about intentionally waiting to leave until after his parents have both gone to sleep, Istvan has one more stop to make tonight before he’s ready to go to bed.

 

He shoots a quick text as he’s getting off the train and by the time he goes up the back walkway, Jake is already standing at the door. Staring at his best friend’s blank expression, he turns back into the house, muttering “Jesus, just get in here, you asshole.”

 

He and Jacob Oh were friends from almost the moment they met in middle school. Jake was raised by his mother and grandmother in a bookstore, and Istvan and Ionela were raised by a pair of queer, badass one-man-army husbands.

 

Ann-Marie had been enchanted with the twins, immediately trying to feed them as much as they could humanly consume in one sitting. She was not entirely convinced by the twins’ fathers however, and it led a certain distance through the first few years between them. It wasn’t so much that Ann-Marie was homophobic, she just didn’t think two men were capable of raising one child, never mind two.

 

In her mind, men were creatures who provided you with a child, fixed the car and the leaking roof, and very little else. What Ann-Marie didn’t understand was that they were not the first children Tătic had raised. By the time they were ready to go to school, he and Dad had reversed shifts, Dad going back to working during the day so that Uncle Sam wasn’t taking on the extra workload anymore and Tătic going back to the dinner shift at the restaurant.

 

The twins went to school each morning absolutely immaculate, lunches and homework in hand, Tătic’s natural propensity for perfection combining with his almost pathological urge to make sure all of their needs had been met. It didn’t take too long to convince Ann-Marie that their fathers were more than capable.

 

Istvan lays across Jake’s bed and boots up an old copy of Death of the Outsider. The smooth actions of Displacing Billie through the streets of Karnaca allows his mind a few moments of much needed peace.

 

“How are the parents?” Jake asks, settling next to him on the bed, leaning against the wall and casually draping his calves across his back.

 

“Good.” He scowls, miscalculating a jump to fall to his death on the street below. “Nela has a boyfriend, did you know about that?”

 

“Hm. Dana the Brit. He’s odd, but seems chill.”

 

“He’s…with the JB’s,” Istvan says, frowning. “Maybe you could take Ionela on a date, talk her out of…?”

 

He trails off as Jake shakes his head, with an angry smile on his face. “You…really are a complete asshole, you know that?”

 

Istvan blinks. “…yeah?”

 

As his best friend for over six years, Jacob is more aware of this than anyone else.

 

He shakes his head. “Never mind. Shelf that, Fanny, it ain’t happening.”

 

Jake chews his lip and glances at Istvan, a brief flash of worry coming over his features. “Do they suspect…?”

 

“ _Shhh_ ,” Istvan hushes gently, reaching out to squeeze his thigh in warning. “I don’t think I’d know even if they did.”

 

Istvan is not easily surprised, but Jake manages to do it, slouching down and bringing his hand higher, over the crease between thigh and torso, between his legs to the half-hard bulge resting against the fly of his jeans.

 

They do a lot of things, but it’s generally an unspoken rule that they don’t touch each other’s dicks, along with no kissing and no discussions afterwards. They’ve always been friends, and anything else is two teenage boys being horny in the same room together and these rules kept those walls well around the every day reality of their relationship.

 

 _The trouble with that_ , Istvan thinks dizzily, _is when you’re SUPER fine with punching holes through all those walls._

 

In a roundabout way, it started because of Ionela, because even as Miss Kitty, she didn’t feel brave enough to sing on stage. Despite being only a week away from performance, Istvan had found a dress and shoes, studied the make-up tutorials on YouTube, and ‘burrowed’ the nickname Jake gave him in middle school, introducing himself to the audience as ‘Miss Fanny’.

 

His uncle, amused, had said “You are aware of the double-meaning of that particular name, correct?”

 

And Istvan, beautiful in his makeup, had raised his brows in response. Classmates who’d thought they could also use Jake’s nickname were quickly corrected – he hadn’t intended it to be cruel at the time, and he didn’t use it cruelly now. Their peers weren’t quite the same.

 

He’s still the only person allowed to call him that.

 

Jake hisses through his teeth, cock jumping to attention against his fingers. Istvan’s mouth waters, the urge to open his jeans and shove Jake’s dick in his mouth and let himself choke on it making his stomach ache.

 

Because that’s not a territory Jake has ever expressed an inclination in traveling to, instead he removes his hand and hits ‘pause’ on the game, throwing the controller on the floor before tilting his hips up suggestively. The position lifts his ass to an angle that Jake is very familiar with, judging from the way he swears under his breath and scrambles over Istvan’s legs to straddle his ass.

 

They unzip themselves at the same time, Jake yanking his loosened jeans and underwear down past the lower curve of his buttocks. He then breaks another unspoken rule. “Damn,” he breathes, both hands cupping his ass. “Nobody holds a candle to you, Fanny. You’ve still got the most perfect ass in all five boroughs.”

 

“God,” Istvan whispers, barely audible, his body twitching violently as Jake spreads him open and spits, his legs tightening automatically around him in anticipation of this reaction.

 

They can only do this laying down because the sensation of Jake’s spit running down his balls and the rough slide of his cock past his hole makes Istvan’s legs both turn to jelly. Jake grips the firm muscle with both hands, thumbs pressing deliciously into his perineum and creating a tight body-hot space for him to fuck without using a condom or spending time on having to prep his partner.

 

Or having to deal with the existential heterosexual crisis of putting your dick into your best friend on a regular basis.

 

The fact that he comes so close to doing it, it’s almost irrelevant doesn’t seem to occur to Jake, and Istvan is not about to point that out to him. It’s hard enough as it is not to yell “ _We’re fucking adults now, Jacob – just spit on your cock and shove it in me. We’ll talk about your straightness status after you give me a proper dicking_!”

 

He comes pretty close to it anyway, groaning ‘fuck, fuck, fuck’ under his breath and leaving off the ‘me’ from each expletive, Jake’s hard deliberate thrusts grinding his cock into the plush pillowtop mattress below him. Istvan normally jerks himself off, but it’s been over a year and he forgot how good this was. His limbs are shaking so badly, he’d never manage to get his hand beneath him.

 

Jake then breaks another rule, pulling on the hem of his shirt until Istvan gets the hint and let him strip it right off his back. Behind him, Jake inhales sharply, murmuring a stunned “ _Fanny_ …!” and touching his left shoulder blade, reminding Istvan that he hasn’t actually mentioned getting a tattoo to anyone yet.

 

“I got it…afterwards…” he whispers, cheek resting on the sheets.

 

He nearly flinches as Jake’s mouth, warmer and smoother than his hands, kisses him on the dead-center of the star at his shoulder, caressing down the long line of his spine like an easily startled horse.

 

Because Jake’s already broken more rules than he can count, he seemingly decides he might as well break them all.

 

He can see Istvan looking at him over his shoulder, a sleepy, challenging glance with his sloe-dark eyes. _You know you aren’t going to do it_ , they almost seem to say to him. _You don’t have the guts to jump off this cliff._

 

 _Fuck you_ , Jake thinks, irrationally angry. _Fuck you, Fanny, I want everything or nothing._

 

He doesn’t use spit – spit is good enough for getting himself off, but for Fanny, he uses proper lube, warmed in the hollow of his hand, slicking up his cock with a long slow stroke, his other hand subconsciously moving to grab his arm, pinning it behind his back to hold him still. Jake’s hand feels far different than his own – shorter and rougher, with thick callouses that rub against his skin. “You…”

 

With a twist of his wrist, he can make Fanny whine and squirm underneath him. It feels powerful in the most intoxicating way – Jake is hardly even aware that he’s pinned Istvan down, so that he must stay where he wants. Fanny never seems to have a problem with that though, he works himself back against Jake like a fucking dream, and each time Jake’s cock catches on his opening, he lets out a strangled moan that gives him all new fantasies of going all the way.

 

It is pretty satisfying to know that he’s made Fanny speechless, his mouth hanging open, held in place by the hold Jake has on his arm. Dark spots appear on the green sheet below him as Fanny drools, groping desperately for the top sheet with his only free hand, and shoving the fabric between his teeth to muffle his loud groaning as Jake squeezes his shaft, pre-cum dripping below him.

 

His eyes nearly cross as Istvan squeezes his gluts around him, rolling back his hips and Jake swats his ass. Istvan’s cock jerks hard in his hand, and because he knows how much he likes it now, Jake spanks him again with a little more force and watches Fanny’s eyes roll back, biting down on the sheets as he moans.

 

“God, you’re-”

 

Fucked up, he was about to say. _You’re so fucked up in the head. But I don’t even care because I love you and you have no idea, so what does that say about me_?

 

Instead, Jake slaps him sharply, golden skin turning scarlet on both butt cheeks, licking the sweat that runs down the beautiful sculpture of his back, until the fingers on one hand are buzzing and the fingers on the other are coated in jizz. He resists the urge to cram the ones covered in come into his mouth and instead uses it to begin pulling on his own cock.

 

Shakily Jake says, nearly pleading, “Turn over, baby – Fanny.”

 

Limbs still shaking, Istvan rolls away from the wet spot on the mattress to collapse on the other side breathing hard and stares up at him hazily, stomach streaked with semen. Biting back a moan, Jake starts jerking himself off fast and rough, starting at the narrow ‘v’ leading down from Istvan’s hips and the flush covering his chest. Fanny stares at him, hands caught around his waist and murmurs, “What did you call me, Jacob?”

 

Jacob.

 

_Shit._

 

He’s been a coward about this for so long, that being honest now is freeing, even as he stares into the black of Istvan’s eyes and wonders if this is the last time they’ll do this again. Through gritted teeth, he says “ _Baby_.”

 

“What a dumbass,” he says with an infuriating smirk.

 

“What an asshole,” Jake replies automatically, moments before Istvan runs his fingers through the short coarse hair at the back of neck and yanks his mouth down to meet his lips.

 

Their first kiss is an angsty meeting of teeth and tongue, biting and licking frantically. Istvan pulls Jake’s fingers away from his cock and wraps his legs around his waist, forming a tunnel with his hands and nudging Jake to slide his cock through as though he were fucking Istvan. As though he were-

 

“Come on,” Istvan whispers urgently, kissing his shoulder, heels nudging at Jake’s thighs. “Jacob, don’t make me call you ‘baby’.”

 

“Fanny,” he says, choked up. “Sorry.”

 

“I’m not,” he sighs into the hollow of his throat, the sweetest sound Jake has ever heard. Naked skin pressed together, he murmurs “I’m not sorry. I’m never sorry, with you.”

 

He’s not pushed to orgasm, he’s thrown into it like a small rock being hurled to the ocean, come slipping over Istvan’s fingers and onto his stomach. When he can breathe without shaking like a leaf, Jake discards his shirt and uses it to clean up the mess, tossing it to the dirty laundry hamper in the corner.

 

“Why didn’t you just _say_ something, Jeong-bak?” he asks, his hold on Jake’s hand making it hard to pretend this hadn’t happened.

 

“You were leaving, Istvan,” Jake says unhappily, passing a regretful hand down Istvan’s sternum, as though he already anticipates the moment of goodbye. “You wanted to leave everything behind.”

 

His friend is rarely soft, rarely placid, but Istvan relaxes against the bed and runs his thumb over Jake’s abused lower lip. “I was trying to prove something to myself,” he admits, just as regretful. “And I did, but in all the worst ways.”

 

“Fanny,” he whispers seriously, crawling behind Istvan on the bed. “You did the right thing.”

 

He feels light-headed as Jake curls up against his back, grabbing at his hips so that again, Istvan will stay where he wants him to. “Sometimes I believe that. Sometimes I don’t.”

 

A part of them is worried that it will be different, that it will be weird and awkward for them. In the corner, the fan buzzes and Jake’s fingers lightly trace down his skin, rough with the callouses of lifting boxes, building shelves, and painstakingly repairing the more fragile books.

 

But it feels good, it’s feel real and simple and perfect. It feels like Istvan could finally sleep and when he closes his eyes, he’d see something other than new blood and old terrors.

 

“What does it mean?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“The tattoo, what does it mean?”

 

The tattoo somewhat resembles the Captain America shield Dad created for the comics, but the star is more prominent like the one painted on Tătic’s left arm, each point stretching to the edges of the circle, Cap’s patriotic colors muted to bands of black and gray on Istvan’s skin. His tribute to his fathers is obvious, but he’d added one for his sister, letters black and bold around the circle that forms the shield.

 

“It’s sort of a reference to the Sokovian national motto: _Quis nos separabit a caritate Christi_? – _who shall separate us from the love of Christ_?” Istvan mumbles, head resting on his arm as he feels Jake touch the lines. “I wanted it shortened: _Quis_ _separabit_? – _Who shall separate us_?”

 

Cheek pressed to the ink, Jake squeezes his waist and says, “You need to get home – they’re going to worry about you if you’re not there when they get up.”

 

He doesn’t sound happy about this at all. “You should come over,” Istvan says sleepily, lacing their fingers together even as his other hand grabs his shirt. “Tomorrow, come over.”

 

“Yeah, okay,” he mutters.

 

Sliding his jeans on, Istvan glances at him. He looks miserable and despite his very true accusations of being an asshole, he’s not heartless. Crouching on the edge of the bed, he catches Jake’s face between his palms. “In case I wasn’t pretty clear on this before,” he whispers, leaning up to kiss his eyelids. “I love you, Jeong-bak. Don’t you dare forget it.”

 

“Please don’t make me say it, Istvan,” Jacob pleads with him, a single tear running from the corner of his eye. “You aren’t going to stay, and I won’t make you. But give me something I can hold back.”

 

And Istvan knows that he’s right, that he won’t be staying, but not for the reason Jake thinks. He can’t run forever, and there’s no hiding what he’s done, not in the long term. He doesn’t know what’s at the end of the line, but he can feel it waiting for him. Maybe soon. “No, Jake. I just needed you to know.”


	6. time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some graphically violent/nasty things in this chapter so please just be aware of that."

Expecting the nightmare to come doesn’t make it easier. Part of him wasn’t, Istvan must admit. The nap this afternoon had been blissfully free of it. Making it worse was knowing that it would happen, but it was never the same each time and no matter how ready he thought he was, he couldn’t prepare himself for it. He didn’t know what to prepare  _for_.

 

Maybe growing up on a diet of Uncle Thomas’s fairytales wasn’t such a good thing – if nothing else, it certainly gave his mind more…creativity.

 

He’s wandered through empty streets in Brooklyn and even Manhattan, all the stores and houses boarded up and when he looks in the windows, it isn’t his face looking back at him, and he smashes them all, bursts shards of glass onto the sidewalk, even after they cut him. In the morning, he comes awake soaked with sweat and crying.

 

Walked through white hallways, shooting his loved ones, their bodies each falling to the ground with a dull heavy thump that he could feel with the very essence of his being and he would gag and gag at the sound, but he kept killing them anyway.

 

He’s dissected his kill, piece by bloody piece, clinical and exacting in each stroke of the knife, putting each organ in a jar and hiding them all away in his closet like an even more demented Doctor Frankenstein.

 

Tonight, Istvan is back in the woods of his native Sokovia, the shaded piece of forest beyond the backyard of the house where Aunt Lucia used to live.

 

In bare feet, he walks through the freezing waters of the creek. If asked in the daylight, Istvan would’ve said he barely remembered this place. At night, in dreaming, the smell of the dirt and leaves is vivid, the shadows dappling the forest floor recalled with perfect clarity. Blood drips between his fingers, a living heart pulsing against his palm.

 

He hides within the trees and eats the organ whole and raw, even as he heaves at the chewy texture, the harsh coppery flavor filling his mouth. In the distance, he hears Tătic calling for him, and eats faster. Louder and louder his voice becomes, until Istvan is choking down each bite, cramming his mouth full and running for the creek. He runs to wash his hands clean, scrubbing the blood from his face, overwhelmed by the feeling that if Tătic sees, he will know what Istvan’s done.

 

Knowing that something terrible will come if he sees.

 

The branches on the forest bed crack and snap, footsteps behind him getting closer. It’s on his hands, his face, his clothes-

 

“Oh, Fane,” Tătic breathes, horrified, his secret displayed for the whole world like a tattoo over his skin.

 

Bolting upright, Istvan falls to the floor, scrambling for the trash bin next to his bed, retching violently, the taste of iron and copper still laying all over his tongue. The spongy texture of chewing the heart in his mouth. The memory of Tătic’s face, eyes wide with fear and disgust.

 

Istvan vomits until there’s nothing more in his stomach, then has to spend another ten minutes dry heaving, cold with sweat and shaking. He’s going to have to clean that out without showing his fathers – it won’t do to let them think he’s ill. He waits for several more minutes until he can leave his room, until he’s no longer so sweaty and clammy-looking.

 

Tătic and Ionela are already awake, doing the crossword together at the breakfast bar. “Hey,” she says brightly. “I looked for you – did you go visit Jake last night?”

 

“Uh, yep,” he says, pouring hot water through the coffee filter. “Just went by really quick to say hi and hang out for a bit.”

 

Ionela looks suddenly quite pleased, a faint smile curling her mouth as lifts her cup to her lips. Istvan stares at her suspiciously. “Why are you smiling?”

 

“No reason,” she says innocently, blinking up at him. “I think Jake missed you. He’s been pretty grumpy lately.”

 

“He does seem rather mopey,” Tătic adds carefully.

 

Istvan turns back to his coffee so that he won’t have to look directly at Tătic yet. While he doesn’t doubt that Jake missed him, he’s afraid there’s another emotion attached to the reason for his sudden mood swings because he knows that Jake is worried about him, worried for him.  _I should never have told him. I should never have gotten Jake involved in this._

 

He knows that it’s true, but he also can’t imagine holding all of this in and even now, the thought of telling his parents is ripping him to pieces. They’re going to find out, his aunts and uncles are some of the smartest and most thorough investigators in the world, and while he was exceptional in covering his tracks, he does not have professional training. If he makes it till the twenty-second, just two more days, he may have a chance of escaping accusation, most of the evidence having been processed or lost by then. But he’s starting to feel that keeping this secret may actually kill him from the inside out.

 

 _For now_ , he thinks, walking back to the table and looking into Tătic’s fond, gentle smile.  _I enjoy what I have. For as long as I have it._

 

So he does.

 

Despite Tătic’s dislike of the cold, he does take them ice-skating, just like he did when they were kids. The rink is every bit the treat it was when Istvan was twelve, and racing across the ice still feels like flying.

 

Ionela stares at him, face flushed and panting hard, the first real smile she’s seen on his face since he got home. “I’m your sister,” she reminds him quietly, while Tătic is fetching the traditional post-skate hot chocolate. “You can tell me if something’s wrong.”

 

 _What if everything’s wrong_?

 

But she deserves to know. “Can I…get a raincheck on that?” he mutters, untying the skates. “What about this guy you’re seeing?”

 

“His name is Dana and being creepy to him won’t make him go away. Don’t change the subject on me,” she says, despite her flushing cheeks. A hint of annoyance creeps into her tone. “So, are you planning to tell me as you get on the train to New Orleans, then? Dad and Tătic are letting you be weird and depressed because they’re worried you’ll run back to Louisiana and never come home again if they pry too much but we all know something’s wrong. I’m your sister, Fane, I know you.”

 

Istvan resists the urge to snort. Yeah, that’s won’t be happening.

 

He fucking  _hates_  Tulane, and he’s not super fond of the Big Easy, either. The food is amazing if you go out into the quarters and there are lots of nice native Orleanians, but he loathes the warm humid weather, the insects, and the hoards of drunk people that come into the city for Mardi Gras. He loathes the drunk classmates that occupy campus year-round, most of whom seem to be trust-fund snobs with nothing better to do than attend parties and make terrible decisions together. It does not escape his attention that he could be considered one of those trust-fund snob, but Istvan wasn’t always, and his parents don’t just pay his way from admission to graduation. There are moments between that and his ADHD that it’s nearly impossible to concentrate.

 

Another student – Yelena, maybe – would be having the time of their lives and charming the hell out of the whole social scene, but Istvan lives on the razor edge of rage-quitting that whole fucking state.

 

“I would just really like to enjoy Christmas,” he says sincerely. If Istvan lies to her right now, Ionela will find a way to exact a painful revenge upon his person, he can tell by his sister’s expression.

 

“And whatever you tell me would prevent that?” God fucking damn it. Some people have siblings that are dumb as rocks. Istvan doesn’t have one of them, and that’s just so inconvenient sometimes.

 

“Please leave it,” he pleads, glancing over her shoulder. Tătic is coming, steaming cocoa in hand. “Just for now, Nela. I can’t tell you now.”

 

While Ionela is spiteful to her foes, luckily she has more mercy for her loved ones. Istvan is spared, at least for the moment.

 

Dad makes Nana Sarah’s pot roast for dinner and despite his sickness this morning, Istvan cleans two full plates, which seems to ease Dad’s mind a bit. The twins meet Jake and Yelena at a karaoke bar, Aunt Natasha their ‘chaperone’ for the night.

 

Yelena is still one of his favorite people, nearly a decade after they first met. Lenka is one of the very few people he’s ever met who is always and unapologetically herself, without the opinions of others to hinder her. That she is also fearless, kind, and witty make her difficult to dislike and easy to talk to.

 

Jake and the twins go back home at ten, but Lenka and Aunt Natasha keep singing and eating sushi until midnight.

 

Ionela makes cagey references to spending time with her boyfriend, so Istvan turns the lights off in his room and Jake slips beneath the covers beside him.

 

“What do you want to do?” he murmurs, their fingers tangled together between them.

 

“I want…” Istvan answers slowly.  _I want all the things I never did in high school. I want each desire I ignored recalled back to me here and now. I want time to walk backwards, just for you and me._ He kisses Jake slowly, from lips to jaw to neck to ear to shoulder. “…I want impossible things.”

 

“That’s okay,” Jake says in his sleepy drawl. “You _are_ an impossible thing, Fanny.”

 

It’s more touching than any sugary endearment could be, although he doesn’t mind ‘Fanny’ or ‘baby’.

 

 _I love you_ , he mouths against Jacob’s chest, and he knows by the raspy way he inhales, that he understood.

 

Istvan snickers at Jacob when he reaches up toward his chest. “What are you reaching for? I haven’t gotten any of those.”

 

Gently kicking him in the shin, Jake says “Which one of us tried to make me go out with your fucking sister, again? Okay, so I need to rethink some of my moves, give me a break, I’ll figure it out.”

 

Curiously, he asks “Have you really never done this with anyone but me?”

 

“I mean, I drank too Jaeger and kissed a dude during a party last New Year’s Eve, but yeah, pretty much.”

 

Laughing, Istvan says “You are the most tragic bisexual. C’mere.”

 

He touches him the way he wants, the way he’s  _wanted_ , the way he learns Jacob likes. For an hour (or two), he hides nothing and it’s brilliant.

 

They fall asleep, and Jacob already has a spot on the bed, had a spot he hadn’t noticed existed until now right behind him as the big spoon.

\---

There are moments in Istvan’s childhood that could be a lifetime away, and moments that could’ve happened yesterday. Time is an interesting thing that way – or maybe trauma is.

 

The worst things seem to accomplish both at once, happening a millennium ago to a different person than himself but only just yesterday, too. The best of it is distant, faded and well-loved with the continual fondness of recollection.

 

Adriana singing them to sleep happened a hundred years ago. Tătic carrying him from the bed for the first time after a nightmare happened twenty years ago. Every hug and kiss and “I love you, Fane” happened centuries ago, but they are perfectly preserved in his mind.

 

Mircea’s lips against his, his uncle hitting him in the face, and the sound of a gun, all of that was only a few days ago. The week in ninth grade when they weren’t completely sure whether or not Dad would live, that happens once a month, in his mind. Bombs dropping into Cozima, that only happened last night. Uncle Elek beating him with a belt happened just last week, but not to him.

 

Istvan dreams about that, this time, but halfway through, Uncle Elek turns into Dad and he cries, he cries the way he didn’t when it actually happened. He twists around and grabs the belt from his hands, wrapping the leather strap around his his neck and chokes him with it, until he stops struggling. For some reason, he thought the body would turn back into Elek, but it’s still Dad and now he’s dead, and Istvan sobs hysterically, unable to look away from the way the deep blue of his eyes stares sightlessly into the sky.

 

“Hey, hey. Baby, it’s okay.”

 

He jerks upright, frantic and confused, face still wet from crying.

 

Jake’s phone is lit up on the night stand, casting the room in a glow of white light, and he reaches out to touch Istvan’s face gently, wiping his cheeks. His lips touch Istvan’s brow as he murmurs, “You’re home, Fanny. You’re home. It’s safe.” Jake cards a hand through his hair. “I’ve never seen you cry before.”

 

“Scared?” he asks thickly, with a forced laugh.

 

“I’m terrified,” Jake answers honestly. “You are one of the strongest, toughest people I know.”

 

“Sorry to rub off that veneer for you,” Istvan mutters.

 

“Don’t,” he murmurs. “Don’t do that. I’m worried about you, Istvan. I still believe you did the right thing, but I think it may have broken your heart.”

 

Soft as a secret he never wanted to tell, Istvan says “It’s always been broken, Jeong-bak. It’s just now I’ve broken off a piece where you can see.”

 

“I want to see it all,” he says, like a vow, a promise, Jake’s arms coming up around his shoulders.

 

Istvan again chokes on his laughter, his tears wicked away into Jake’s shirt and the pillow. “I love you,” he says lowly, though he knows by now the words almost physically hurt Jake to hear. He can’t help it – Jake summons them from his mouth with his very being. “ _Te iubesc_ , Jeong-bak.”

 

“Don’t go back,” Jake begs thickly, wet with unshed tears, fingers tight at Istvan’s waist. “Don’t go back to Louisiana, Fanny.”

 

Weak with love and misery, Istvan says “Okay. I won’t.”

 

Istvan feels no urge to go back to sleep, but his fingertips play along Jake’s back until Jake does. When he’s sure Jake is fully sleeping, he slips out of bed, taking a quick shower before going into the kitchen to start the coffee and breakfast.

 

Dad and Tătic look pleasantly surprised to see a mountain of pancakes waiting for them – one side of the mountain was blueberry and one side of the mountain was chocolate chip because Istvan couldn’t decide which one he wanted more. One stack near the bottom was both chocolate and blueberry because Ionela was a sick and twisted person, but he makes them because he loves her despite that.

 

“This looks delicious, _puişor_ , thank you.”

 

Dad helps him clean up, standing next to him as he loads the dishwasher. It’s impossible not to remember the dream this way, remember strangling him to death with the belt. It wouldn’t be difficult – Istvan already knows that he can take down someone who is easily twice, maybe closer to three times Dad’s size. He wouldn’t even need the belt, really, his bare hands would do just fine.

 

 _Don’t throw up_. He stares hard at each plate and fork, his throat closing around the sensation of pancakes trying to come back up. _Don’t throw up. You never get sick and they’re already suspicious. If you get sick in front of them, they’re never gonna let that go. Do not throw up._

 

It’s hard because even as it makes him sick, the intrusive thoughts won’t go away. Dad is an excellent fighter, but he works on the element of surprise, he’d never consider that Istvan would be his attacker. Istvan’s hand twitches, an instinctive urge to reach for a weapon he doesn’t have, at least not at the moment.

 

 _What are you doing_? A voice of reason that sounds a lot like Ionela screams. _Were you actually thinking of pulling a knife on Dad?_

 

 _No_ , Istvan realizes, sweat rolling down his spine with anxious fear. _I was going to do it…_ without _thinking_.

\---

Bucky stares at the clothes draped across their bed and says, “I know we don’t want him to run back to Louisiana, but we have to say something, Steve.”

 

“Oh we will,” Steve says firmly. “He hasn’t been this twitchy since we first brought the twins home.”

 

“Maybe it’s school, maybe he doesn’t like it there,” Bucky frets, running a hand through his hair. “You know he’d be too proud and stubborn to admit that he hates it. Or maybe he’s being picked on…”

 

“I can certainly believe that, but he can handle a few bullies, and being proud and stubborn wouldn’t make him this freaked out. This is like… _trauma_ , Buck.” Chewing his lip, Steve says “Did you see him getting himself a cup of coffee? His goddamn hands were shaking. Something _happened_ to him down there, Bucky.”

 

Hearing the anger and concern in his voice, Bucky quickly throws his jeans at the bed to give his husband a hug. “We’re gonna fix this,” he says fiercely, kissing the top of his head. “We’re gonna take care of our baby.”

 

Despite spending four days hinting that Istvan can tell them anything, really, anything he feels like telling them, he should feel free to share, their son does not crack and continues to look like the revived corpse of a Medieval-era Sokovian war-rider. Bucky goes a tiny bit crazy during tea with Natasha on Christmas Eve morning when Istvan is having a hard time looking him in the eye and his hand shakes just enough to rattle the china when he picks it up.

 

Natasha stares at him, then at Istvan, and is clearly about to say something when Steve abruptly stands and says “Istvan, the kitchen for a second, please.”

 

“Okay, Pops,” he mutters, eyes on the carpet. Like he’s about to be punished for something. Jesus.

 

Abandoning his cup on one of the tables, Bucky follows them into the Star’s industrial kitchen. “You are going to tell me what’s wrong with you,” Steve whispers, tilting his head back to look Istvan in the eye. Gently taking his son’s face in his hands, he says “Because if you don’t give me something, darling, you are not getting back on that train. I don’t care if I have lock you in the apartment and have your sister give you The Sad Stare, you aren’t leaving here unless you tell me what’s wrong.”

 

“I’m um, I’m thinking about not going back to school,” he mumbles, barely able to get the words out.  

 

Heart-thumping hard, Bucky tries not to show how excited he is. He and Steve both hated having the kids leave home and Istvan going halfway across the country was particularly devastating. “If you don’t want to go back, we aren’t going to force you, Fane.”

 

“I don’t,” he says, a bit more strongly this time. “I enjoy some of the curriculum, but I don’t like it in Louisiana, and I don’t think Tulane is the right fit for me.”

 

Pride and stubbornness, as he thought. The problem is what often looks like Istvan’s stubbornness and pride from the outside was his internal structure trying to avoid conflict, asserting his independence from them in some misguided belief he needs to prove that they don’t need to worry over him, don’t need to take care of him.

 

He peers up at them beneath his eyelashes. “So, you aren’t mad?”

 

“No, _puişor_ , of course we’re not mad,” Bucky says, shaking his head. “You didn’t move out, Fane. Your home is still with us, and you can come back to it any time you want.”

 

They left the kitchen and Steve shared a look with him, then shook his head at Bucky. This wasn’t over, not by a long shot.

\---

Istvan doesn’t like the JB. Mostly, this is because having Bashir here makes him nervous. “Ionela tells me that you’re going to Tulane? What do you study, Fane?”

 

“Steven,” he corrects, narrowing his eyes at the man, aware that his heavier accent makes the word almost sinister. If it’s a good enough name for Dad, it’s good enough for him, and Ionela knows perfectly well that he doesn’t allow strangers to use that name. English-speakers butcher his Sokovian name, so he prefers to be called Steven in a formal setting. Dana definitely doesn’t get the right to call him Fane. Tilting his head, he says “Political science.”

 

Dana’s eyes, more the blackness of ink than his own dark chocolate, flicker over him, as though trying to glean something just from the way he holds his fork and the tone of his voice. “You want to be a politician?”

 

It’s hard to relax when it feels like Dana is fishing for something. With an impersonal, distant smile, Istvan replies “Not exactly.”

 

He feels Tătic looking between them, watching this interaction. Luckily the moment is broken when Dana’s phone audibly vibrates in his pocket. “Sorry, I have to check this. Back in a jiff.”

 

Glaring at him, Ionela hisses “What are you doing?”

 

With a frown, Dad studies him and Istvan tries not to panic. “I know you don’t like new people, but that was a bit harsh.”

 

“Yeah,” he says, shooting his sister a dirty look. “It’s almost like he knows a lot about me when I barely know who he is.”

 

Fuck. Ionela looks hurt and he knows he’s just been a total ass.

 

There is murmuring in the kitchen and Aunt Carol and Uncle Thomas storm into the dining room. Dad begins to welcome her, but looks perturbed by her expression. “Carol Ann…”

 

“I’m very sorry, Steve.” Istvan’s stomach gives a sickening room and he suddenly feels faint as Carol glares at him and Ionela. Over her left shoulder, Tom is impassive but resigned, and over her left, Dana looks stunned. Horrified. “Which one of you did it?” she demands and beneath the table, Istvan’s fingers once again twitch for a weapon he doesn’t have anymore. “This wasn’t an accident, you obviously planned to do it, you might as well get the credit.”

 

 _Don’t say anything_ , he silently pleads to his sister. _Don’t give up anything yet. I’ll find a way out of this_.

 

Tătic slow and growing more upset, asks “Carol, what are you talking about?”

 

Tom says, uncharacteristically somber “We aren’t certain which, but one of your children has killed someone, James.”

 

Oh god. Oh god. He never thought that Ionela could be implicated in this. Why would they think it could be her?

 

He feels Ionela staring at him, horrified, and Istvan turns to look at her. “What have you done?”

 

Carol’s attention completely focuses upon him, and Istvan wants to hide under the table. Quiet and furious, she says “Would you like to explain yourself to me? To them?”

 

Nostrils flaring as he inhales, trying to keep the nausea down, Istvan looks right back at her and says, “Explain what?”

 

“You really don’t want to play that game,” Tom advises softly. “Not with us.”

 

“I have to admit,” Carol says wryly. “You couldn’t have picked a better target. But you _didn’t_ really pick it, did you? Not in the way we’d normally think of it.”

 

“Don’t,” Istvan says weakly, grabbing the edge of the table. He feels faint. He feels sick. “Please. Don’t say it.”

 

“Someone needs to fucking explain themselves,” Dad says dangerously. “Right now. Istvan…what is going _on_?”

 

Istvan frantically shakes his head and Tom gently says “You can’t keep this a secret, love. I know it’s hard-”

 

“You don’t know anything!” he snarls, standing quickly despite his shaky legs. “How could I – how could I let _that thing_ just walk around?”

 

More sympathetic than she’s been the whole evening, Carol says, “It isn’t your fault, darling.”

 

“How do you know that?!” he demands, wild and screaming, tearing up as he loses complete control of his emotions. Ionela looks terrified at his unhinging. “HOW DO YOU KNOW?!!”

 

Carol shows him a file with a familiar name over the front, frowning in sympathy when Istvan makes an awful, gutted noise. Gently she says, “Would you like to tell them, or shall I?”

 

“Burn it,” he sobs. “Please just burn it. I’ll go to prison, but don’t-”

 

“That isn’t an option, I’m afraid,” Tom says. “Hiding this doesn’t solve anything and it doesn’t seem to have helped you at all.”

 

Gesturing to the living room, Carol tells Tătic and Dad “I’m afraid there’s a great deal your son hasn’t told you in the past several months. Follow me.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did we notice any recurring themes in Fanes's night terrors? Beyond the murder, of course?


	7. velocity

Tătic grabs Istvan by the shoulder and steers him into the living room, radiating concern and anger. Istvan considers this to be the moment life as he knows it will end for him. The moment he steps foot in that room, everything he knows will change.

 

“The door, Dana,” Carol says quietly. She doesn’t really think that Istvan will try to escape the building, particularly now that Bucky has placed him between himself and Steve on the sofa.

 

“Why did you do this?” Dad asks him, serious but not angry. “Fane, why have you done this?”

 

“One step at a time, Steve.” Carol settles herself on top of the coffee table and holds up the folder again. “I take it that you’d prefer I explain this?”

 

“Yes,” her nephew says faintly, head bowed so that he gazes between his knees. He doesn't think the words would come out of his mouth even if he wanted them to.

 

Calmly, she holds up the folder and asks his family “Do you know who this is? He _is_ rather famous. Infamous, I should say.”

 

“I’ve never heard of him.” Tătic says, glancing at Istvan.

 

“The prisoner,” Dad breathes. “Oh my god, Daisy and Jemma have been investigating _you_. Why did you kill someone who was already in jail, pet?”

 

“Because he was a monster,” Istvan says faintly.

 

“He was in SHIELD custody!” Dad says, sounding devastated. “Fane, why would you throw your whole life away for someone already destined for life in prison?!”

 

“I believe we can answer that,” Tom says, gesturing to his wife.

 

Holding the folder open, Carol shows them the prisoner’s name and photo, a square-jawed and heavily muscled man with small dark eyes. “This is Victor Creed. Canadian, he was dishonorably discharged for assault and domestic abuse from the Canadian Armed Forces and later picked up by the SHIELD office in Ontario.”

 

At Bucky’s frown, Tom explains “This is back during Director Stone’s era of SHIELD, during which time many of these people found entering the organization much more agreeable than today. He did tours for SHIELD in Afghanistan, Sokovia, Germany, South Africa… Unfortunately, Creed’s appetite for violence combined with his temper were…difficult to contain. Steve is correct – he was never leaving San Ramos. He had multiple convictions for aggravated assault, murder, torture, sexual assault, and ahhmmm… _cannibalism_.”

 

Istvan flinches, but Steve and Bucky clearly feel better. Their son killed someone, but _holy shit_ , if ever a man deserved a murdering...!

 

“You’re a smart man,” Carol tells Istvan quietly. “You know how I found you, don’t you?”

 

“I didn’t,” he admits softly. “But then you weren’t sure if it was me or Nela.”

 

“It was the same way you found him, wasn’t it?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Tătic finally tears his eyes from the photo, and then looks at Istvan and he can see it coming over him. “Oh my god,” he breathes, bolting up from the sofa. “No. NO!"

 

Istvan covers his face, feeling sick. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He doesn’t know how Tătic figured it out this early, but he doesn’t want to see Dad when he tells him, too. “I couldn’t just…”

 

Steve is still looking wildly around the room, wondering what the hell is going on, why Bucky looks so horrified. “Did he…did he assault her, too?” Bucky asks Carol, then realizing where he is, gives a sharp jerk of the head. “ _Jesus_ , never mind. I don’t want them to know.”

 

“Bucky, what are you talking about? Istvan didn’t assault a woman, he _killed_ a man!”

 

“Auntie…” Ionela asks in a quiet, trembling voice. “What are you saying?”

 

“Don’t,” Bucky barks, cutting Carol off. “Don’t.”

 

Kneeling in front of her, Tătic takes his beautiful girl’s face in his hands and whispers “Puişor, your brother did a very, very bad thing. But he did it because he was afraid and he was trying to protect you from something.”

 

Istvan gives a soft sob, hands still covering his face and Bucky crushes them both against his chest. “It changes nothing,” he whispers passionately into the dark crowns of their hair. “Do you hear me? It changes _nothing_.”

 

Carol stares at Steve, holding the file open for him as he looks at it, puzzled, trying to discern the mystery Bucky seems to have uncovered just from looking at it. Creed was handsome in a rather bland way, with dark heavy brows and a wry smile. Steve has met _many_ monsters – but he’s not sure any of them have been more deserving of the title than this person.

 

SHIELD seemed to keep him around as a kind of Hannibal Lector, using him to catch others nearly as monstrous as himself. He was certainly powerful, and he hadn’t lacked for intelligence either, but he’d used all his gifts to treat other people like literal and figurative cattle.

 

Pondering over this, just sort of idly examining this person, Steve inadvertently stumbles upon the same thought that Bucky had earlier:

 

 _This monster has my son’s smile_.

 

Steve’s eyes shoot back up to Carol and she can see the question in them, see the fear and the horror.

 

She nods.

 

“No,” he croaks, glancing at Istvan, who clings to Bucky like he never really did as a child. But now that the thought has entered his mind, there’s no escaping it. It’s there, sitting in the heavy line of Istvan’s brow and the thin curve of his lips, Ionela’s rounded jaw and slightly Romanesque nose. The inescapable truth he can see staring back at him from his children’s faces.

 

“Were you looking for someone?” Tom asks Istvan quietly.

 

“I just wa-wanted to talk to Dražen. I was homesick… _all the time_ ,” he admits, shame-faced that he was so determined to hide how unhappy he was. “My freshman roommate talked about finding his half-sister through this DNA service, and I thought maybe one of Mama’s family members could be on there. I thought it would be-be interesting. _Fun_. It was an impulsive decision, but I didn’t expect to get anything back.”

 

“So you submitted a DNA sample,” Carol leads. “Then what?”

 

“There was a man in Canada named Graydon Creed,” Istvan admits. “He was listed as a match for my first cousin, but his dad’s only sibling was…”

 

“Oh,” Ionela says faintly, the reality of the conversation sinking in for. Trembling she clings to Tătic tightly and he keeps his iron grip on her. “Oh.”

 

“I didn’t-I wanted to be _completely_ sure, so…I hacked a SHIELD server,” he whispers. “But when I compared the samples…”

 

“Baby daddy,” Carol concludes with a sigh.

 

“He didn’t hurt Mother,” Istvan says, chewing his lip. “I don’t think he ever actually hurt her.”

 

“Victor was…very charming, when he wanted to be,” Carol acknowledges. “Tom and I actually did some research on this. As far as we can tell, Adriana never told him that she was expecting a child. We believe that she began to realize he was deceiving her when he returned to the United States, and he was arrested shortly after the two of you were born, trying to go back to Sokovia. I don’t think that he ever physically hurt her, but he would’ve been lying to her their entire relationship and there are some records that…he tried to contact her again.”

 

Tom says “He attempted to send Adriana letters, all of which – both before and after her death – were returned to sender. Some of Victor’s worst rages came when the letters were sent back. A man like Victor would’ve viewed Adriana more as property than a human being, and that attitude would’ve extended to the two of you. Your mum made a mistake, but she was trying to protect you from it.”

 

To Steve, Carol says “You know what’s going to happen next.”

 

“No,” he says immediately, but unlike before, this was not a denial. It was a refusal. “ _No_ , Carol, he’s-he’s too young.”

 

“He’s older than we were,” she reminds him.

 

“That’s-that’s different,” he insists. “We didn’t have anything else.”

 

“I don’t mind going to jail, not really,” Istvan admits. “I couldn’t-I couldn’t let him just sit there in that prison, like he hadn't done anything worse than stealing a car battery or something.”

 

Without looking away from her, Steve says “Carol isn’t taking you to prison, pet.”

 

“You aren’t going to jail,” Carol says quietly. “Auntie did some negotiations, Fane.”

 

“What?” He blinks slow and confused, still crying into Bucky’s shoulder.

 

Concerned, Bucky says “What did you agree to, Carol?”

 

Maybe more somber than he’s ever seen either of them, Tom and Carol look at each other and then back at Bucky. “Istvan will be one of us now, James.”

 

“No,” Steve repeats, angry now. “He isn’t, he’s an innocent kid-”

 

“ _Steven_ ,” she says, soft and urgent. “Maybe this plan was forged out of anger, but he didn’t commit a crime of passion, Steve. Istvan spent _months_ figuring out how to disable San Ramos security, and butchered Victor Creed like an animal.”

 

 _You may as well get the credit_ , she'd said.

 

“Carol,” Tom warns her.

 

“No, he needs to hear this or he won’t except my judgment. Istvan slit his throat and hung him up like a hog at the market. This _looked_ like one of us, Steve.”

 

“Do you know what they called him? _The Butcher_.” Eyes distant, Istvan says “I wanted him…to know how it felt. What he did to those people.”

 

“We can’t ignore what he’s done,” Tom points out carefully. “And it’s not ethical to sweep this aside and pretend it hasn’t happened. Istvan is one of us now, Boss, and his place is in the Underworld.”

 

In all eight years with them, Istvan has never seen Dad cry, but he cries now because despite his best efforts, his son had ended up exactly where he was over twenty years ago. “I didn’t want this for you,” Dad tells Istvan. “I tried to keep you away from this, because I wanted you to have better options than I did.”

 

“This isn’t your fault.” Istvan hugs his narrow form. Crying angry, bitter tears he says, “I think it was too late, Dad. Maybe I was always going to be a monster, just like _he_ was.”

 

Bucky blanches, recalling the night he came home to the NYPD telling him that his father, the man who’d abused him for all sixteen years of his life, had killed his sisters and mother by accident before killing himself. Becca’s tiny, frightened face, the only survivor of one of the only times Bucky had let himself leave the house.

 

His baby sister, who’d gone to a permanent foster home while he’d been passed from family to family, she couldn’t spend longer than twelve hours with him because to Rebecca, seeing Bucky was also seeing her protector, but that meant there was something she needed protection _from_.

 

Looking into the mirror and wondering if he were destined to be the same monster that had destroyed everything Bucky had loved in one night. The constant guilt of knowing that if he had been there, his mom and sisters would probably still be alive – George might have half-killed him, maybe fully killed him this time, but Ma would’ve lost just one child instead of two and her own life.

 

Bucky can’t say what he would’ve done to his father if George hadn’t killed himself, but he doubts it would be much kinder than Istvan’s treatment of Victor.

 

Gently releasing Ionela, he embraces Istvan and says “Don’t say that. Don’t ever think that way. Who you are has nothing to do with him, and you’re not a monster.”

 

“I can’t bear to think that thing is part of me,” Istvan chokes, burying his face into Tătic’s shoulder.

 

“How about this,” Tătic whispers in his ear. “Twenty years ago, I was in Sokovia and saw the most beautiful women I’d ever met, and I loved her very much. She was the only woman I’d ever loved, and she was kindest and smartest person I knew, but I had to return to America. My heart was broken when I lost her, but she gave me the most wonderful gifts of my life.”

 

It’s as much of a fairy tale as the story that he and Dad created the twins from the breath of love and a handful of stardust.

 

“But that isn’t true,” he sobs. “We both know that isn’t true.”

 

“Isn’t it?” Tătic says, gently wiping his face. “Would believing it change anything? No matter what a piece of paper says, you belong with us. You’re still ours. Your sister is still ours. If choosing to believe that I was in Sokovia twenty years ago makes you feel better about it, no one will argue with you. No one will ever even know the difference, puişor.”

 

And then the last thing he expected to hear entered his ears.

 

“I’m coming with him.”

 

The entire room stares at Ionela.

 

“You did this without me, without even talking to me,” Ionela says, with a furious stare at her brother, who can’t quite meet her eyes. “Jake knew, though, didn’t he? That’s why he’s been acting so crabby and depressed. You aren’t doing _this_ without me, too.”

 

“Pet…” Steven looks pained, nauseated at the thought of his children performing the same work he used to do.

 

With a crooked smile, she says “Maybe it’s in our blood. You can’t argue with destiny, Dad.”

 

“You aren’t responsible for the things Victor did,” Bucky says firmly.

 

Squeezing Steve’s fingers, she quietly says “I wasn’t talking about _him_ , Tătic.”

 

“You aren’t responsible for the things I’ve done, either,” Steve says quietly, looking between his children. “I don’t regret it, but I hate the idea of you believing this is what you were destined for.”

 

Dana, silent until now, speaks up for the first time. “It doesn’t have to be forever, sir. My mentor always says that the Underworld can be a portal into understanding yourself, understanding what you really want and who you really are. Maybe they were for destined for it, but it doesn’t have to be _all_ they’re destined for.”

 

With a slightly smug smile, Carol says “Kamala always was my best student.” Tom nudges her in the side. “No, you weren’t my student, you were a tragic shitshow Steve had me babysitting sometimes.”  

 

“I love you too, honey,” he grumbles.

 

“We don’t get a say in this, do we?” Bucky sighs. “Even if we said absolutely not, they’d take one or both of them without informing us and we’d never know.”

 

“Pretty much,” Tom says cheerfully. “Fane doesn’t have a choice, we’ve convinced Head Spook he will be more useful with us. A payment in trade, of sorts, now that Victor is no longer available for use as a consultant.”

 

“Head Spook considers Victor’s murder Istvan's audition tape. I doubt she will say no to a partner who is his intellectual equal, if not his better,” Carol says, glancing at Ionela. “If this is what Nela wants, I won’t bother stopping her – I doubt it will do me much good.”

 

“It won’t,” she confirms grimly, and glances at Dana, whose face is set in studied blankness. He cannot argue against this choice when he himself made it, when he demanded that Jack be considered for his partner. “This is what I want, Auntie.”

 

“ _I was trying to protect you_ ,” Istvan tells her in Romanian. “ _I didn’t want you to live in the nightmare I walked into_.”

 

“ _Do you actually think that makes me feel BETTER about what you put yourself through_?” she retorts. “ _Our entire lives you’ve been treating me like glass, but I’m as much of an adult as you are! I’m four fucking minutes older than you! And you just unilaterally made the decision to hide this from me and then committed a crime to make yourself feel better! My judgment is not the one we’re questioning here_!”

 

Her face softens at Istvan’s wounded face. In English, she says “You have the _best_ intentions and the _worst_ judgment, _frate_. I’m going with you because I think you need someone who will protect to you – from yourself, most of all.”

 

After months of hiding and running and panicking and anger, Istvan touches his sister’s cheek and meekly says “Okay.”

\---

March 1st, 2029

In no world would Istvan ever imagine that he would be sitting in this room, waiting for his sister to come in. In fact, he had no idea these rooms even existed until twenty minutes ago.

 

Every office of the Underworld has a series of rooms many of the Scourge use for this exact purpose – contemplation and study. Most of them aren’t studying the rooms themselves, though.

 

There is always a room reserved for fallen Spooks, with a series of holographic displays memorializing every member of the Underworld that had ever been lost in combat, rotating through the nearly seven thousand people since the organization was founded in 1946. Aunt Natasha’s uncle and both parents were found here.

 

The alcove settled within the center of this room was were Istvan sat, a series of three screens that displayed every Head Spook, Deputy Phantom, and Third Ghost in the history of the Underworld.

 

It was here that he finds his grandparents, Uncle Thomas, Aunt Carol, and Dad.

 

Intellectually, he’d known that they were part of this, that his family had passed through his very building. Seeing his father’s face fifteen years younger, as the Head Spook, with Carol and Thomas on either side of him is…

 

It’s kind of an indescribable feeling. Every step of this journey, Ionela has been confident and immovable while Istvan simply follows behind her.

 

Uncle Thomas has the smirk of a natural-born poker play, Aunt Carol has a rather cruel-looking smile, and Dad – Steven Rogers – is young, stone-faced, and has the cold, dead eyes of a shark. But strangely, impossibly, Istvan feels better just seeing him. Seeing all of them.

 

Maybe murdering his birth father is where he started in the Underworld, but that doesn’t mean that’s where his life must end.

 

Maybe he lets himself pretend that Tătic is his real father.

 

But whatever he has do, Dad told him last night on the couch, handing him the pint of mint chocolate chip. _Whatever you have to do to keep your sanity, keep whatever the best parts of you are, is what you have to do. And remember that no matter what happens, I’m your Dad, and Bucky is your Tătic, and nothing will ever change that. _

 

Yes, he can do this. This is where he belongs.

 

“Are you ready to go?”

 

Istvan looks up at Ionela. Like him, she is required to dress in black – Dana had informed them, with a wince, that it would hide any blood during the physical combat tests.

 

“Yes, _surată_. Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do we wanna see more about them ending up in the Underworld or shall I continue to Yelena and her very unfortunate husband?


	8. force

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rogue is not depicted this way anywhere else, but I read her original design was supposed to be based on Grace Jones, so suck it Marvel.
> 
> If you choose to interpret Kamala as trans...go for it, I guess?

“This is…more people than I was expecting,” Istvan mutters.

 

“It is a higher turnout than I thought it would be,” Dana admits, glancing up into the balcony at the Scourge who stare down at his two charges. He has been assigned as the twins’ orientation manager, at least until a real mentor can be picked out for them. “They’re salivating over you.”

 

“Why?” Ionela asks, barely audible.

 

“Are you kidding?” he says. “You don’t really understand your place here, do you? You are the children of a Head Spook, not just any Head Spook – _Captain_ , who is widely known to be in the top five, if not in the top three, of Heads to ever take the seat. They all want to be your teacher, love. Unless Head Spook has someone in mind, I imagine they’ll kill themselves trying to win her approval to secure their spot as your teacher.”

 

Disbelieving, Istvan asks “Is this how it usually works?”

 

“Yes, and no. If they’re recruited from a SHIELD source first, Fury might have a particular Spook in mind for their mentor – this is usually someone very high up, since that’s the only members permitted to speak to him. Otherwise, their profiles are handed to all eligible Spooks – anyone who has already graduated, and doesn’t already have their own student as of today – and then anyone who’d like to apply for mentorship sends a note to Head Spook. If there are more than one, they fight.”

 

“Are you…are you telling us everyone here has applied for us?”

 

“Maybe not the Deputy and Third, but yeah, pretty much. If either of them put their names in, the rest are basically screwed, because there’s no way Head will give you to anyone else. Unless-”

 

“Dana.”

 

Mid-sentence, Dana’s mouth shuts itself with a click of teeth and all of them turn to find three women standing behind them. In the center, the most striking of them is a tall black woman with a dusty blue mohawk. To her left is a gorgeous young woman with dark almond-shaped eyes and a beautifully patterned hijab, and to her right is a pale lady with bright pink waves of hair and eyes so intensely blue that they can only be colored contacts.

 

“Head Spook,” Dana says, spine straightening severely. “Deputy Phantom. Third Ghost.”

 

“We seem to have stumbled on the perfect time to introduce ourselves,” the pink-haired woman points out. “Megan Gwynn, Third Ghost, just call me Pixie.”

 

“Kamala Khan, the Deputy Phantom. Otherwise known as Ms. Marvel.” Oh! This was Dana and Jack’s mentor, the woman Carol had acknowledged to be her best student.

 

“I am Head Spook, also called Rogue, and you don’t need my real name,” Head Spook says in a southern drawl, before sparing Dana a brief glance. “You’re early, Peacemaker. Allow us to relieve you of your duties.”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

The woman in the hijab snaps her fingers and points at the ground beside her, and Dana immediately goes to her side.

 

Ionela tries hard not to let her discomfort show on her face.

 

She had vaguely been hoping that perhaps Dana would be their teacher, but she is no longer harboring that wish. She’s not at all comfortable with the idea of being trained to that level of obedience to a man she also has sex with. Ionela is also beginning to wonder how…intense this mentor is going to be.

 

Dana is not a person who does what people want or expect of him, but Kamala commanded him to her like a dog and he responded, seemingly without thought.

 

Dad had warned them both that the experience of their training might be unpleasant, but they would likely become quite attached to their mentor, whomever they were. Many of the Scourge, especially those who were younger or if they had an unhappy childhood or family life, would view this person as a parental figure.

 

Istvan wasn’t thrilled by this idea. As unhappy as his early childhood was, he already had parents and he loved them very much.

 

Even more disconcerting, Dana seems to think that all these people watching them on the mezzanine want to teach them – badly enough that they’re willing to fight each other. Istvan wonders if Dana meant that literally or metaphorically. With the Scourge, it’s hard to tell.

 

The people on the mezzanine level catch his eye, one tall woman in particular with long hair dyed an eye-catching silver leans on the rail and meets his eye, smiling before she turns away and makes a gesture to the group around her.

 

“I see you’ve met your uncle’s prize student as well,” Kamala remarks.

 

“Huh?” Istvan jerks his eyes away from the balcony to stare at her. “What?”

 

“Silver Sable, the woman who smiled at you. She was the only student Thomas ever took,” Kamala says, looking at the twins somewhat wryly.

 

“If she smiled at you, she’s up to something,” Dana mutters.

 

“She’s always up to something,” Kamala replies calmly, “That’s why Thomas was so fond of her. I’m honestly surprised your aunt and uncle didn’t return from retirement to teach you themselves.”

 

“I’m more surprised our father didn’t,” Istvan admits, unable to quite conceal his uneasiness.

 

“That is impossible,” Rogue informs them, not unkindly. “Carol Danvers issued an order passed from every subsequent Head – unless she and Thomas are no longer alive, Steve Rogers is forbidden from ever returning to us.”

 

“With my dear Carol and Tom away, and Steve unavailable,” Kamala observes, a calculating gleam in her eye – oh dear, they’re beginning to see why this woman shared their aunt’s codename – “There is no need for crude blood sports. I believe, Head Spook, that Silver and I have the most right to them.”

 

Rogue’s brows go up, her expression showing that she is open to negotiations, but far from convinced. “You think so, Kamala?”  

 

“I am the last of Carol’s students, as Silver is Tom’s,” she points out coolly. “I suppose she does have the _most_ right, if anything. Tom was their father’s student, before he was her teacher.”

 

“Yes, I did take into consider that your line would feel that the Barnes’ natural place would be with one of you,” Rogue responds, unfazed. “And therefore, there is someone with much greater right than Silver.”

 

For the first time, Kamala and Megan actually looking shocked. “You…you are not kidding, are you, Head Spook?” Megan breathes. “She has not been seen by another Spook in _years_ , Head.”

 

“She has _never_ concerned herself with the affairs of the administration,” Kamala sputters, “How…?”

 

Rogue smiles. “Well, Deputy Phantom, you know how Silver Sable is. If she’s smiling, you know she’s planning something.”

 

There is a commotion at the far end of the hall – first, the doors open on the lower floor open, and then people on the mezzanine begin shouting, groaning, and even cursing.

 

Kamala says something in Arabic, swearing furiously from the sound of it, and crosses her arms. “A very dirty trick, my Head.”

 

“What-what’s going on?” Ionela dares to ask.

 

Rogue smirks rather inscrutably and turns her gaze to the direction of the commotion. Waving at the distant figure of the woman approaching, the Head Spook says “While I’m sure it was a dreadfully long flight for her, Istvan and Ionela, your mentor has now finally arrived.”

 

Dana, awed, breathes “Oh my god. She’s really here.”

 

Somewhere around her early thirties, she is a beautiful woman with long reddish brown hair twisted behind her head with a lacquered comb and muddy hazel eyes. The maroon leather jacket is her one concession to the lingering cold weather – her plunging neckline, short flowing dress, and lack of leggings are heedless to it.

 

“Are these the ones?” she asks, the hint of an Eastern European accent catching the softest edge around her syllables. She has been in America for a long time.

 

“Yes, Istvan and Ionela Barnes.”

 

Also heedless of her height in relation to Istvan, seem to be looking down at them despite having to look up, even in heels. “Good,” she murmurs. “At last, I can meet you, now that you’ve grown up. I am Wiccan. Wanda Maximoff. And you will graduate, so that I can finally see my father again.”

 

“Your father?” the twins repeat, confused.

 

Her face softens. “My poor children. Of course you don’t know your own history, _our_ history. Steven Rogers was my teacher, and the only father I have ever known. He would want me to take care of you, I think.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is more, I just thought this was the most natural place to stop.


	9. mass

The woman with shining silver hair comes down to meet them, her dark eyes dancing merrily. “Well if it isn’t Cap’s babies,” she coos, with an Eastern European that’s closer to Yelena’s then to theirs or Wanda’s, glancing at the older woman. “I’m Silver Sablinova – they call me Silver Sable around here.”

 

Istvan’s brows rose. That was a bit on the nose for a codename.

 

“Thank you for passing my message on, Silver,” Wanda says, pointedly ignoring Kamala, who still seethed behind her. A less brave individual would be a bit concerned about putting her back to Ms. Marvel.

 

But, she thought, eyes narrowed at the back of Wanda’s head, Steve’s kids never did lack for courage or strength of will. She shook her head, turning away after a last glance at the twins.

 

Hopefully Wanda would take care to curb that a bit. Kamala certainly would’ve.

 

If they weren’t careful, the Barnes twins were going to end up just like the Maximoffs had – one of them dead, and one of them haunting the earth.

 

Silver grins, a sly expression eerily reminiscent of their uncle Thomas. “It was my pleasure, _cioteczka_.”

 

Wanda murmurs something in Silver’s ear, a phrase that makes the woman’s terrifying smile only grow larger. _You know how Silver Sable is. If she’s smiling, you know she’s up to something_.

 

What is Wanda planning to do with Silver?

 

With a last flickering glance at the two of them, Silver walks away, waving over her shoulder. “I’ll see you later, my little fleas.” With a flash of teeth, she adds “Give Daddy my love…”

 

Ionela looks troubled. Wanda whispers “It’s okay. She was talking about Thomas.” A tight expression comes over her face. “I imagine she misses him, too.”

 

“Why?” she asks under her breath.

 

“It’s against the rules to speak with anyone whose left the organization. Tyrone and Tandy were able to circumvent them because they were on Carol and Steve’s official documents of adoption,” Wanda answers quietly. “But this is why many who retire do so with their closest superior or subordinate. Even we are only human, and it is hard to be untethered to what we grow attached to.”

 

“You didn’t,” Istvan says lowly.

 

And all Wanda will say is “No, I didn’t.”

 

She leads them to a small and very quiet conference room, not far from the Head Spook’s main office. A small vase holds a bouquet of white star-shaped flowers on the desk, their powdery clean fragrance filling the little room. The sight of them causes Wanda to smile and shake her head. “Silver, ever the literalist.”

 

“Hm?”

 

She points, gently brushing the starburst petals. “The flowers. Stephanotis. It’s exact translation is ‘fit for a crown’, but I believe Silver would take that to mean ‘fit for Steven’.” Sitting at the desk, she asks “Do you know why I wanted you, Istvan and Ionela?”

 

“Because…we’re Dad’s-we’re Steven’s children?” Istvan guesses.

 

“That’s just one of the reasons,” she admits. “It’s a good reason, but it’s not the only, or even the first reason. I don’t suppose you know much about me, do you?”

 

“No, we-”

 

“You,” Ionela breathes, with wide eyes. She remembers sitting in churches, Dad’s thin fingers entwined with hers. “You’re the girl-child.”

 

Istvan makes a matching sound of recognize. “Yes. Tătic would tell us that Dad loved three other children before us. A boy, and another pair of twins.”

 

Without a word, Wanda scans her identification chip with her company-issued phone, the holographic image displaying on the wall beside them.

 

Below their father’s name were three other names.

 

Thomas W. Hemsworth

Pietro D. Maximoff

Wanda M. Maximoff

 

“Uncle Thomas was…”

 

“Oh, yes,” Wanda nods. “The first student Cap ever trained. Your father’s pride and joy – he was so picky I doubt anyone ever thought he’d train another. But we needed him, and he was there.”

 

She crosses her legs and considers them for a moment. “Like the two of you, my brother and I learned the sin of murder early, for the necessity of survival.”

 

Istvan swallows with some difficulty, and a gray-faced Ionela grips the arms of her chair tightly.

 

“Like us, you needed him, and Steve was there. But a series of circumstances occurred that caused my brother to lose his life before we ever finished training, at sixteen years old.” Weaving her fingers together, Wanda studies them carefully, with a clever and somber air. “I would like to ensure that does not happen to you.”

 

Rogue eyes Wanda with a calculated stare that does not seem to faze the other woman at all, not that this surprises the Head Spook in the least. Wanda Maximoff could’ve spent the last decade commanding this entire organization – that she hadn’t was more a commentary on her own lack of desire to do so than on her skill set. In fact, Wiccan was technically more senior than the Head Spook herself by a period of four years. She had one of the longest service records in the history of the Underworld since the founders passed away.

 

She’s also never taken any interest in having a student before now.

 

Many assumed this was because of what happened to her brother, Quicksilver. He was killed when they were still in training, and many among the Scourge – particularly those who hadn’t been there that day – assumed that she held a long and silent resentment for her teacher Captain because of it.

 

It appeared that this was not the case, to Rogue’s eyes.

 

“I have considered your proposal,” she says, meeting Wanda’s long studied expression of passive, bland interest. “I have _been_ considering your proposal for many months.”

 

“Yes, Head Spook,” she murmurs, eyes lowering respectfully. The very picture of an obedient subordinate.

 

Rogue has often wondered how sincerely she means it, if she was truly that reverential of the office or if she does it merely to placate her. Rogue is not the first Head Spook to command Wanda despite her outranking them in seniority. She imagines that Wanda is accustomed to having to soothe their egos.

 

It must’ve been hard for her, the young Wanda.

 

She would’ve lost her brother at sixteen. Then her mentor, the only father she’d ever known, just before she turned eighteen. Less than a year later, Carol and Tom, effectively her aunt and uncle – but also her Head and Deputy – would be gone, too. When she was twenty-one, Daredevil got into an accident that left him effectively blind, landing him an instant retirement, and that was where Jessica felt compelled to follow him.

 

And with that, the last people who would’ve truly known Wanda were gone from her life, as effectively as if they had died. Contact with any of them would’ve been strictly forbidden while Wanda was still in the organization, both for their safety and her own.

 

What masochistic desire had compelled Wanda to stay, when everyone who knew her had left these halls? When merely staying here removed her from even the possibility of speaking to them again?

 

Perhaps this project had something to do with it.

 

“I believe it is a good idea,” Rogue says finally, with a slight frown. “Am I to assume that you would like your new students to be the first team?”

 

Wanda examines the obvious reluctance in Rogue’s expression. “Yes. You do not agree that they would be very suitable?”

 

“I have no doubt you can make fine ghosts of them,” she says slowly. “But they’re practically in the right mindset already, the boy especially. We train for a full year to be as calculated and exacting as Istvan was and some of us never achieve such a level of comfort with our task. It seems wrong to waste that.”

 

In a rare show of disrespect, Wanda blandly replies “Be sure to tell his sister that in three or four years when she’s forced to shoot him like a rapid dog.” At the Head Spooks brief look of surprise, she sighs and says “A boy should not be comfortable doing what he did, Head Spook. As much as it has appeared to weigh upon his conscious, making him _more_ comfortable with such acts will not yield good results, for anyone involved, and Ionela will undoubtably be the one charged with exterminating him. I believe they are good candidates for my proposal.”

 

Because Rogue placed more value in good old fashioned common sense than she did in her ego, she says “There is…a truth to that, Wiccan. Very well. Your project Fury and I have approved your proposal, effective immediately. The Barnes twins will be the first members of the Assistive Rescue and Mobile Operations.”

 

Wanda smiles. “It’s A.R.M.O.R. For short.” Standing, she smooths her skirt and says, “I’ll be submitting my request for disaster relief teams within the next twenty-four hours, Head Spook.”

 

“You are remarkably efficient,” she observes, then narrows her eyes. “I don’t suppose that Silver Sablinova will be anywhere on that list?”

 

Wanda shrugs, unabashed. “I need a Deputy, and no matter what you think of her, Silver is dedicated to any task she is applied to.”

 

“I’ve been planning this for over a decade,” Wanda smiles and looks at her feet. “Since the moment my brother was shot in the Triskelion, I’ve wondered how I could’ve prevented that from happening. How I could’ve been faster, colder, more prepared. But I realized that wasn’t what we needed. The Scourge…SHIELD itself needs a dedicated branch to manage disasters and emergencies. Someone less worried about secrecy than we were, and more well-trained than the Operations agents. Today, Head Spook, you have become one of the people responsible for its creation.”

 

Rogue laughs and shakes her head. Wanda was as ambitious as her teacher, maybe more so. Just in a very different way. “We shall have to hope that the twins are equal to such a great task, being the first Agents trained to the ARMOR squad. I wish you all the luck in the world…Director.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanda is good egg :3
> 
> Are you ready for Yelena's somewhat depressing tale?


	10. For Rich or For Poor

January 2030

When she was a little girl, her parents bought Yelena had a special machine in her bedroom at night that would make noise and project light, the throbbing ocean waves designed to mimic the sound of a heartbeat.

 

Before bedtime each night, her parents would tuck her in.

 

Mama would take her into the bathroom, and they would brush their teeth together before stopping at the dining room alcove. Pointing to each of the pictures there, painstakingly acquired by her parents and carefully framed, Mama would murmur “Say goodnight to Uncle Mitya and Babushka.”

 

And Yelena would whisper “ _Dobroy nochi.”_

 

They would go back to her room, and Papa would read her a story, comfortably sprawled on top of the bedclothes beside her in Yelena’s tiny twin bed. Then Papa would give her a kiss and pull the covers up to her chin.

 

“Sleep tight, my _dusha_ ,” he’d say, making her giggle as he traced a light finger over each of her eyelids. “Sweet dreams.”

 

Then her parents would stand in the doorway, shadows silhouetted against the light of the hall. “Night, _mamochka_. Night, _papochka_.”

 

“Goodnight, Lenka.”

 

Yelena desperately wishes to have that moment back, right now, this very second as she sits at a booth in the Red Star, drinking more cherry coke than any medical professional would advise and flexing her toes inside her snow boots, her knitted hat crumpled on the seat next to her. She wants her father to call her his _dusha_ , his soul, and everything would feel safe and right again, just like it was when she was a little girl.

 

But instead there’s a feeling sitting in the bottom of her stomach, like grief and dread, and she watches the snow fall outside the window pane, stroking a long strand of blonde hair that spills over her shoulder.

 

It’s a hard thing to make herself hold onto, so Yelena lets her mind wander.

 

The motor of her heartbeat machine burnt out when she was sixteen, and instead of throwing it away, she had Papa help her fix it.

 

Her therapist says that Yelena has an unhealthy problem with letting go of things she’s become attached to. Considering that she lost all her caregivers, _twice_ , before being old enough to go to middle school, she thinks she does pretty fucking alright.

 

So what if she can’t throw away the purple hippo plushy Fitzsimmons gave her on her first Christmas in America? So what if she still has her favorite pair of jeans from sixth grade? So what if she washes the quilt Uncle Steve made for her with a devotion that borders on religious?

 

On the other hand, she can be really careless and forgetful with things she doesn’t have an emotional connection to.

 

When she was fifteen, she won a bronze medal for Tae Kwon Do in Los Angeles, at the 2028 Olympics. But after all that hard work, after years of training, all the sweat, blood, and bruises, holding that chunk of bronze in her hands had just felt so hollow.

 

So empty.

 

For a sport that, if she were a man, would’ve earned her international fame and acclaim, but for a woman…well most people, if Yelena made the mistake of admitting she was an Olympic medalist, leapt to the assumption that it was for gymnastics or figure skating.

 

A couple of especially pigheaded assholes had actually told her she was lying, only for her to bring up the Wikipedia page and show that the bronze medalist in 2028 was listed there as ‘Yelena Belova Barton’, _and_ it included her own damn picture.

 

She’d given Mama approximately twelve heart attacks in the eighteen months since she brought it home. Yelena would just…set it down, toss the thing anywhere and it would end up buried beneath crumpled pairs of jeans, or wedged somewhere within the disaster that was her bookshelf, or trapped between the wall and the headboard.

 

“ _Why_? Of all the habits you could’ve picked up from either one of us – _why_ did it have to be your father’s inability to keep anything tidy, Yelena Valentinovna?”

 

She’d ended up handing over the medal in its glass plaque, smudged with fingerprints, the exasperated, frustrated look on her mother’s face only increasing her guilt. Now it sits on the mantle in the living room with her parents’ wedding pictures and the photo of the three of them on the day she first came to Brooklyn.

 

Yelena isn’t nice to the things she doesn’t love, but she can’t make herself let go of the things she does love. And that’s pretty much become her biggest problem.

 

A boy in designer glasses and a blue wool peacoat – expensive, tailored – passes by her seat outside the restaurant and Yelena straightens herself up, fingers folded on the table in front of her. Her pink polish is chipped. Unwinding the gray plaid scarf from around his neck, the boy makes a beeline for her table and sits beside her in the booth.

 

His dark hair is ruffled – he never remembers to wear a hat – and Alec’s cheeks are red from the cold and wind. She’d like to think that’s why his eyes are red too, but that probably isn’t it. His expression is cut-off and empty, hazel eyes flat. She hates what visiting his family does to Alec. Yelena wishes she could’ve gone with him, but she knows her presence would only make things worse. The only one in his family who doesn’t openly despise Yelena is his youngest brother, Davis, and god knows they enjoy tearing into him just as much as they enjoy tearing into Alec.

 

“How did it go?” she asks, resisting the urge to chew her fingernails, nervously meeting his flat stare.

 

“Not good.” Alec says shortly, rigid as a block of ice in his seat.

 

Alec Warwick is the third of four sons, his family something like American royalty – not quite a Kennedy, but close. Leon Warwick is the junior senator from Virginia, and Vanessa Page Warwick is the only daughter of an oil tycoon.

 

The Warwicks, as far as Yelena can tell, are mean, strange, and rich – in that order. Colin is the oldest – if asked to commit to two words that describe Colin, Yelena would immediately go to ‘sadist’, and maybe ‘creepy’ for the second, though that seems inadequate somehow. Simon is much better, though she doesn’t know him very well. She’s never seen him get off his phone for longer than three minutes, his attention never far away from the screen. Davis is the youngest, only sixteen and the only younger brother Alec has. Davis she likes – Davis is chill, and lets her hide in his room and play Final Fantasy.

 

Alec doesn’t like talking about his parents, but Yelena has a very clear picture of his childhood in what he won’t say as much as he will say. She gets the distinct impression that all four brothers suffered under too much attention from their father and too little of it from their mother.

 

His parents pretty much hate her, which wouldn’t bother her that much…but she knows that they use their disapproval to torture Alec whenever possible.

 

She can’t imagine that opinion has improved in the last 48 hours.

 

Sighing heavily, Yelena scoots under his arm and squeezes his fingers. “You didn’t have to come,” she says quietly. “I don’t expect…well, I honestly have no idea what I expect right now. But I’m gonna be okay.”

 

Alec frowns, brows furrowed, and he opens his mouth to say something, but the words are cut off by Mama, red curls pinned back, standing at their table. “Well, Yelena didn’t tell me you were coming by today!” she says, smiling at Alec, eyes carefully absorbing his flushed cheeks and swollen eyes. “Give me a minute to drop off some vodka and I’ll grab Papa, okay? We’ll have dinner.”

 

“Kay, Mama,” she chirps, mustering a small smile for the only woman she’s ever called mother.

 

Alec turns and just…breathes against her neck, slow and tiny puffs of air that make her heart clench painfully tight against her sternum. She knows that he really loves her parents, but it also makes him a little edgy to be around them – he keeps waiting for them to drop the same bombs and sharpen the same emotional knives that Leon and Vanessa use.

 

He loves his own parents, the same way any child loves his parents, but it’s a sharp and thorny love that hurts him more often than it nourishes him. Clint and Natasha might as well be speaking Russian around him.

 

Papa comes with their dinner – not items on the menu, but shrimp tacos probably made by Uncle Buck in the back. “Hey, kids,” he says cheerfully, gently snagging his wife by the apron. “What’s up? Alec, we weren’t expecting you back in town until the spring semester started up again!”

 

Staring into her parents’ smiling faces, Yelena decides to rip the band-aid off all in one go.

 

“Alec came back to New York early. 'Cause I'm...I'm pregnant." 


	11. For Better or For Worse

Beside her, Natasha feels Clint go. So. Very. Still. They are both frozen, speechless and staring at Alec and Yelena in shock.

 

“You…you…” Clint snarls wordlessly and cuts himself off.

 

Natasha grabs his arm and begins signing at him frantically, so fast that her hands are nearly a blur.

 

If Yelena were not terrified right now, she’d be complaining at them. Since she is proficient in both English and Russian, Sign is what her parents use when they are arguing with each other or discussing something they don’t want her to know about. Papa let it slip that was how they arranged all her birthday parties and Christmas presents.

 

//Clint, don’t hit him, he’s already terrified of us and screaming at him here will just cause a scene – you can’t scare our customers!//

 

//He…he knocked up our daughter!!//

 

//We knew she was having sex. It’s her body, Clint.//

 

//She’s SEVENTEEN. Nobody is ready to be a parent at seventeen, Natasha!// Frustrated, his gestures are short and jerky. //She’s on fucking birth control so that this shit doesn’t happen to her!!//

 

//I KNOW that, I took her to the clinic myself! But accidents still happen, even when you do everything right// Annoyed, she adds, //Do you think I WANTED to become a grandmother before I turn 40?!//

 

//HOLY SHIT NATASHA WE’RE GONNA BE GRANDPARENTS!!// He looks at Yelena and Alec, wild-eyed. //We don’t even know if she wants to keep it.//

 

Natasha blinks, startled, picking up her water glass and draining half of it in one go. “Wh-H-When, um, when did you realize this?”

 

“A week ago,” she says quietly, unable to meet their eyes, holding Alec’s hand beneath the table.

 

“And you…you went to the doctor’s?” Clint asks, eyes darting between them. “This is a for-sure thing, not a false alarm?”

 

“No,” Yelena says, twisting her fingers in his grip nervously. “It’s for sure.”

 

“When is…how long do you have?” Natasha prods. “How far along are you?”

 

“Ten…almost eleven weeks, now,” she answers. “I’m…um…I’m getting really close to the second trimester.”

 

She didn’t even need the doctor to tell her that – Yelena could name the day she got pregnant almost to the hour. Uncle Tony had a party at SI every Halloween, and even the interns like Alec were invited – her cousin’s fiancé Dana would’ve probably snuck him in regardless, he was Dana’s favorite minion, despite only being there a year. Yelena wore a sweet, frilly pink dress and went as Sandy, slicking back Alec’s dark hair and giving him a black leather jacket so that he could be her Danny.

 

They didn’t monitor the drinks table all that well, despite Aunt Pepper's best efforts. After two glasses of bright green lime punch spiked with vodka, she convinced him to sneak into one of the dark offices with her. The two of them had defiled some poor accountant’s desk and then ate twinkies and pizza, laughing and whispering to each other about the hilarious antics of the other guests and how bomb Ionela looked in leather.

 

Even now, she doesn’t really regret it.

 

She’d spent three weeks puking every morning and for some reason she was always tired and had the vaguest beginnings of a headache, but she couldn’t honestly say that she regretted being here.

 

Restlessly running a hand through his hair, Clint says “Are you-does this talk mean that you’ve already thought about your options or do you want us to go over that with you?”

 

“I want to keep them,” Yelena whispers, finally meeting their gaze. “I know I’m young. _We’re_ young. But I haven't thought about anything else all week and I would really like to keep them, if possible. I’m not due until the end of July, so I should be able to graduate without a problem.”

 

“What about college?” Clint asks, with a sadness she found more heartbreaking than anything. “I know you hadn’t decided on one yet, _dousha_ , but what about college?”

 

Yelena has to look away. Her father’s disappointment was more than she possibly bear. “I like the restaurant, Papa,” she quietly. “I've never really wanted to leave. And I don’t want to you to have to sell when you and Uncle Buck are ready to retire.”

 

“I would like to marry your daughter,” Alec says quietly, speaking for the first time. “We’ve spent the past week talking about this, and we want to be a family. We want to do this together.”

 

“Absolutely not,” Natasha says, appalled.

 

Clint signs. //We can’t do anything to stop them from getting married if that’s what Yelena wants.//

 

Natasha sighs before quickly backtracking. “I would prefer that you graduate before that happens, Lenka. And that will give you time to reconsider. Or if not reconsider, at least have a suitable plan.” At her daughter’s expression, she hastily says, “I know you think you won’t reconsider right now, but nine months is a very long time.”

 

“And a wedding, even a really small wedding, takes some time and planning,” Clint says, surprisingly gentle now that Natasha forced him to settle his temper. “You can’t do that overnight. You need to have a marriage license, witnesses, someone licensed to perform the ceremony, a venue.”

 

“Not if we get married at city hall,” she points out.

 

“You can do that if you want,” Natasha says, though she’s clearly unhappy with the idea. “But you’ll still need a reception hall – your aunts and uncles would be absolutely devastated if you got married and didn’t invite any of them. You’re-you’re my only child, and I can’t pretend I’d be happy with that.”

 

Alec shakes his head, squeezing her fingers. “I want you to have a real wedding, Lenka, because this is going to be a _real_ marriage. I know I didn’t get down on one knee and give you a ring, but I consider us engaged.”

 

“How does your family feel about this, Alec?” Natasha asks, with silent suspicion.

 

Shying away from Clint and Natasha’s gaze, he says, “After Lenka told me she wanted to keep the baby, I lied...I’ve lied to my parents.” Yelena feels the tremor in his hands. “I told them that Lenka was already at sixteen weeks.”

 

“Why would you do that?” she demands. “Alec, why would you lie to them?”

 

Quietly, Yelena says “Because it’s more difficult for them to coerce me into an abortion if they believe the legal deadline is five weeks closer than it really is.”

 

Clint stares at him. “Abor…I’m sorry, but didn’t your father-?”

 

“ _Yes_.” Alec says, clipped and angry. Apologetically, he tells Yelena “I’m sorry, they weren’t exactly thrilled to hear I wanted to marry you.”

 

In fact, the things they said about Yelena weren’t worth repeating, particularly not in front of her or her parents. His father in particular made it very clear what he thought of the caliber of Yelena and her family.

 

“ _You got to have some fun and now you’re telling me you want to marry some backwater, borscht-slurping tramp because she puts out and has nice tits? Come on, Alec, think with something other than your dick! She spread her legs for you for the money, boy, not because she’s interested!_ ”

 

“Coerce…that’s a very strong word,” Natasha says slowly. “Yelena, _dousha_ …”

 

Sweaty and pale, Alec says, “Mrs. Barton, Simon got his undergrad lab partner Nina in trouble six years ago and she didn’t want an abortion, either. But in the end, she got one. After somebody ran over her dog and mugged her little sister – twice.” Looking down into his lap, he says “I can’t prove it was my parents who did it, but I do know that they got what they wanted.”

 

Natasha begins laughing, wiping tears from her eyes. Her green eyes glow with dark humor. Reaching across the table, she takes Alec’s other hand in her small white one. Her accent is thicker when she says “Oh my dear boy. Those petty tactics will not work on this family.”

 

“That’s why I’m worried, Mrs. Barton,” he says, chewing his lip. “They know Lenka is a medalist in martial arts – it’s why I’m afraid they might try…something worse. Maybe even do something to hurt you or Mr. Barton.”

 

Now Clint laughs, a loud bark that pierces through the air. “Aw, kid. I wouldn’t worry too much about us. Seriously, Natasha wouldn’t even roll out of bed for anything less than a rocket launcher. Unless your dad has contacts in special forces, I sincerely doubt anything they do will scare us.”

 

“Clint…” her mother says softly. She would never worry for themselves, but if Lenka is going to be walking around pregnant with some kind of nutcase potentially using scare tactics on her, Natasha did feel like they had something to worry about.

 

Luckily, she knew the king of all scare tactics.

 

She then gestures at her husband, two very specific signs – wriggling her fingers on either side of her head in a sort of ‘demon-horn’ gesture, and then a kind of downward pointing motion, ending in a purposeful waving of her hands.

 

Clint bolts up from the table and storms away, Yelena watching him with dismay. “Papa-!”

 

“It’s alright, _dousha_ ,” Natasha says in her most soothing voice. “Papa just needs to make a _quick_ phone call to Uncle Steve.”


End file.
